My Home Is Where You Are
by A Sherlocked Girl
Summary: SEQUEL FIC! Another Christmas, another year... two broken souls... will they meet this time? Or will their past be too much for them to reconcile? Want to know? Then enjoy the read! :D I know, this is probably the vaguest summary you have ever read. But who wants to expose all their twists and turns in a summary! Please give it a go; I hope YOU will enjoy it :)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi guys, here I am with the concluding part of the Trilogy 'It's To You I'll Always Belong'. This part is the sequel of 'A Promise To Keep'. First the texts, then the letters, and now it's time for some face to face confrontation.**

 **Thank you so very much for all the supports you have given my boys so far. I dearly hope that you will continue to be with them in this journey.**

 **Your reviews always brighten my day. So, if you enjoy the chapter and think that you can spare a minute, then please leave a review.**

 **This chapter is neither Brit-picked, nor Beta'd. Each mistake is mine.**

 **I hope you enjoy the read.**

Chapter: 1 - A Hundred Miles

 _ **If you miss the train I'm on**_

 _ **You will know that I am gone**_

 _ **You will hear the whistle blow**_

 _ **A hundred miles…**_

\- **'** **Five Hundred Miles' by Justin Timberlake ft. Carey Mulligan**

White.

Everything was white.

White ceiling, white walls, white bed sheets. Even the carpet on the floor was closer to white.

White meant hospitals. Rehabilitation centres.

Sherlock hated white.

Sherlock had lost count for how long he had been here. May be for days or months or even years. It didn't matter. Not anymore. He never wanted to end up here, in a rehab. He just wanted to…delete everything, to forget. Just wanted to….didn't matter. He didn't succeed anyway, so it didn't matter. Not anymore. Sherlock didn't care. Not anymore.

His room had a wide window which opened towards the back garden, the one with that small pond. Green. Green was good, green was blank. Green was devoid of any memories. But now even that patch of nature was betraying Sherlock. It was mostly covered in grey with ashen green. Still better than golden though, better than warmth.

A slanted late afternoon sunray fought its way through the gloomy clouds and crept into his room and dared to touch his extended feet on the white bed sheet. Sherlock snatched his feet from its clutch, as if burned. Sunrays. Golden. Golden was dangerous. Golden was chaotic. Golden was too familiar. Sherlock didn't want golden.

He stared at the far wall. They wanted to decorate his room too. Insisted upon putting mistletoe at least. As if he was going to...imbeciles. Bunch of dimwits. Didn't they know Sherlock hated Christmas? Didn't they know he had nothing to celebrate? No one was coming home to him? Didn't they know?

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._

The back of Sherlock's head hit the wall in a steady rhythm.

 _No one is coming home to me. Not anymore._

~0~0~0~

"Yes?"

"We are on our way, Sir. Should I move the subject to the facility or should I bring him to you first?"

"Ah, well, I would like to talk to him first. Will his _condition_ permit him to do that?"

"He seems to be quite stable for now. I hope he will be able to."

"Then please do bring him to me first. I will meet him after visiting Sherlock."

"Very well, Sir. Anything else?"

"No, that's all for now. Thank you, Anthea."

With that, Mycroft ended his call. He had a long evening ahead of him.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock was still in the same position as before when Natalie, his appointed nurse in the rehab, informed him that he had a visitor. _So, it's Wednesday then_. Sherlock used to get bristled at the mention of this particular _visitor_ but now he only sighed and steeled himself for another mind numbing few minutes. What good would it do to exhaust himself with hopeless protestations when nothing could get him out of this hellhole before his term was completed?

It was a private rehabilitation facility which apparently had a direct one-way line from his brother's bank account to its own. Hence, Sherlock had a private visitor's room here which was currently occupied by Mycroft Holmes, who could also visit him anytime he wished, apparently. Sherlock clenched his jaw at the sight of him and entered the room.

"Hello, brother, how are we feeling today?"

The speaker flashed a smile which was more like showing teeth than anything else.

"You probably fat and stupid, me...well, wonderful."

Sherlock ignored the offered chair and chose to stand by the window.

"Now now, Sherlock, don't need to get feisty yet. It's a charming evening."

Of course Sherlock needed to get feisty, in fact that was the whole point behind Mycroft's calling this drab evening charming. It was all for riling him up more, wasn't it? Damn Mycroft and his cunning.

"Do you have any special torture to inflict upon me today or will it be the usual brain rotting lectures from you?"

Mycroft remained unfazed by the jab and Sherlock began to pace around. Another of their usual Wednesday meeting.

"I've heard that you are taking your medicine without much protest now."

Trust his brother to make inane obvious statements. Sherlock bristled.

"Is that a problem now?"

"No, not at all. I'm quite surprised for your..uh..cooperation, that's all."

It was impossible for Sherlock to take this anymore.

"Why are you here Mycroft? Spit it out."

"Why, I come here every week on this same day and-"

"And make my existence a little more painful. Yes, I know." Sherlock snatched the sentence from him and finished it.

"Are you prepared to take new visitors now?"

Sherlock spun on his heel and glared, "What do you mean?"

Mycroft stood as well. It seemed confronting Sherlock needed the strength of his full height.

"The last time you met someone other than me you reacted quite _unexpectedly_."

The visitation Mycroft was talking about was paid by Detective Inspector Lestrade. It wasn't overly friendly. In fact Lestrade came here on Mycroft's request because no matter how impossible it looked like Mycroft _had_ the best interest for Sherlock in his heart and he knew a mind like Sherlock's would wither without intellectual stimulation. And he thought dealing with some minor cold cases might help Sherlock to distract his mind from certain things or rather certain someone. But eventually that plan proved disastrous as Sherlock saw through it and demanded Lestrade to tell him how much Mycroft paid him to give him all those less than poor cases. It was unexpected because Lestrade was one of the fewer people with whom Sherlock tried to behave decently.

"It is not my fault that your expectation is poorly based. Anyway, I might consider solving some cases now if that's what this v _isitor_ of yours will intend to bring."

"Ah, what the visitor will bring that I cannot tell, but hopefully it wouldn't be fruitless for you."

"Our idea of 'fruitless' differs widely, brother, so let's not draw any conclusion."

"Fair enough. So, will it be alright if he visits in a couple of days?"

"Do you think I enjoy seeing your face that much or is there any real reason behind delaying your departure?"

"Try to behave like a grown up, brother."

Sherlock was already on his way to the door, he stopped turned his head a little and spat over his shoulder, "I will when you _stop_ behaving like one."

Mycroft exhaled a frustrated sigh. He couldn't even remember when he wasn't a grown up, when he wasn't being the responsible brother. He looked at the empty chair in front of him and got up. He had another meeting coming up. _Hopefully that will go better than this_ , he thought.

~0~0~0~

Anthea called her employer for the second time to confirm their location and arrival. She ended the call and looked at the man sitting beside her. Or dozing off. _Who is this man?_ She wondered, not for the first time. Of course, she knew exactly who this man was. Mycroft Homes had spent a great deal of his time and resources to locate, relocate and secure this young soldier for the past two months. He had gone a great length ensuring this soldier's safety and wellbeing. Anthea knew his file like a palm of her hand by now but that didn't sate her curiosity. She couldn't connect why this apparently non-descriptive army doctor was so important to a man like Mycroft Holmes. She couldn't form any theory why Mycroft spent so much of his effort for this man while his own brother was going through a fatal relapse. Anthea knew there was a connection between these two incidents because no matter how ambitious Mycroft Holmes was nothing surpassed his dedication to his little brother. There were dots with invisible lines connecting them.

The soldier was strangely quiet. Yes, true that he was severely injured and not fully recovered yet but his quietness didn't seem like injury related. He did ask a few questions when she checked him out of the facility in Glasgow but as there were no instruction to reveal any kind of information she avoided every question politely and this man didn't press any further. He looked so broken and hollow. As if he didn't even care about anything, anymore.

She averted her eyes from the sleeping man and looked outside the window. The window glass reflected London night lights.

~0~0~0~

John woke up with a jerk. Someone was calling his name. His instant reaction was to grab his gun only to remember that he was not in the battlefield, not anymore. His medicine addled focus zeroed on a brunette woman and the past few hours surfaced on his mind. He realized that the woman, Anthea, John's mind supplied the name, was asking him to get out of the car as they had arrived where they were meant to. With a great difficulty he left the car, it took him several minutes to get his uncooperative body to steer accordingly but he refused any help from the driver. He even refused their offer for a wheelchair. He might be injured but not invalid, not completely.

Once his feet found a solid ground and steadied themselves. He looked at the stately building in front of him. It was definitely a facility or an institution of some sort and if the number of security guards indicated anything it was damn important too. There was a gold-plated name just outside the gate. John squinted his eyes to read it. Diogenes Club. He had absolutely no idea what that was or what the hell was he doing here. That woman didn't tell him anything except that they were going to London.

 _London. Sherlock._

A pang of pain shot through his chest and constricted it which had nothing to do with his physical injury. The early December wind ruffled his slightly longer hair. He tried to take a deep breath. Tried to inhale the same air which Sherlock was breathing right now, probably. John knew it was as close as he would get to his detective. He swallowed a lump and entered the building, escorted by the same security person who was in the car with him. For some reason that Anthea woman didn't come with him. John didn't know why and couldn't care less. He just glanced at her before following the security guard who looked liked a character from a James Bond film. The unsteady sound of metal on a wooden floor reverberated into the otherwise eerily quiet interior.

The guard stopped in front of a large door, presumably an office, and knocked. Someone from inside asked them to enter. It was more like an order than a permission. He opened the door and held it for John to enter. He entered.

It was indeed an official room. A government one, if the flags were of any indication. In the middle of that ridiculously large room and behind an equally large table was sitting a man who, the soldier realized, was one of the most intimidating people he had ever seen. John couldn't see any name plate on the table, maybe it was outside the door and he missed it. As he began to approach the table the man stood up and sported a smile that could make neon pink hair look more genuine. But he was too tired and dazed to even bristle, so he strode on.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. It's nice to finally meet you."

John nodded and just as he, too, extended his hand to shake the man's he introduced himself as, "Mycroft Holmes."

 _Mycroft Holmes._

 _Sherlock Holmes._

 _Sherlock's brother._

 _Sherlock..._

John staggered back. His breathing stopped for a moment, mind going numb, vision white. He faintly realized that someone shook his limp hand and thought he heard the man saying something else before tuning out totally, something like,

"Welcome home, Doctor."

~0~0~0~


	2. Chapter 2 Way Back Home

Hey guys,

I know I know, I'm more than late in uploading this chapter, and I have no excuses other than my hectic schedule. But I'm gonna upload a fluffy one-shot just right after this to compensate. :D

Koala hugs and cookies for **HauntingMelodyofaNightmare** , **jwolf18791** and my darling friend, **NausS,** for your wonderful reviews and supports. Thank you so much, sweethearts!

Also, big thanks to those who have followed/favourited!

If you like this chapter or the story, in general, please leave a review. It feels great to hear from you. :D

This is neither Beta'd, nor Brit-picked. Each mistake is mine.

Enjoy the read!

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Chapter: 2

 ** _I hear the wind call your name_**

 ** _It calls me back home again_**

 ** _The sparks of the fire_**

 ** _The flame that still burns_**

 ** _It's to you I'll always return..._**

\- **_'_** ** _I will always return'_** by **_Bryan Adams_**

 **[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]**

 _Mycroft Holmes._

 _Sherlock..._

 _Home..._

John had heard that he flat lined when the doctors were removing his bullets, but he never knew how it felt. Now he knew how it felt when the mind flat lined because his did at the very moment. John's mind went blank, completely. He couldn't compare the feeling with anything else as he never experienced such a thing before. He blinked- nothing happened. Tried to talk- nothing happened. He just felt empty and blank. Suddenly he felt a burning sensation in his chest and realized his lungs needed oxygen desperately. With a jerk finally his brain responded to the call of his body and then the hyperventilating started.

John's world stopped spinning. Or the speed got doubled. He felt disoriented. He couldn't breathe, couldn't reach the surface. He was drowning. His sense, his control everything was slipping through. He tried desperately to draw some air into his burning lungs but couldn't. All the signs indicated to one conclusion- a panic attack. Not a violent one, where he actually relived his memories of getting shot, but a mild yet effective one.

John must have been looking seriously ill as he realized the man, no, Mycroft Holmes, was looking at him with an expression which might have been called concern if not for the perpetual grimace that adorned the man's face. His ears throbbed, head felt light, he felt suffocated. But in the midst of this psychotic chaos there was only one thought in John's mind- _Sherlock_. And because of that he tried to compose his body, calm his mind with sheer willpower. He would not break down, not now, not when there were questions to be asked. And most of all not he would not appear week in front of this man, Sherlock's brother.

 _Sherlock._

 _Promise._

 _Gun._

 _Death._

 _Injury._

 _Broken._

 _Home._

 _Sherlock._

His mind played these things like a record on a repeat mode. John clenched his jaw and tried to still his mildly trembling body.

"Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson? Can you hear me? Do you need medical attention? John?"

At the mention of his name John's head snapped towards the man. He stared at this intimidating figure in front of him.

 _Sherlock..._

"A-are you Sher-Sherlock's brother?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the question, "I am."

John's eyes instantly darted around the room, searching, "Is he...is he here?"

"No, he is not here with us at the moment. But do you need any immediate medical attention, Doctor? You were on the verge of having a panic attack."

John visibly relaxed at that. _He is not here, not here. He can't see me, won't see me. Not like this. Never._

"Doctor?"

"Hm? Uh..no I'm alright now, it's alright..so-sorry."

"No need to apologize for something you do not have any grasp over." Mycroft waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Now, as the first rush of John's panic subsided the curiosity and confusion sprang into being. There were so many things John needed to know right now but first he needed to know, "What am I doing here? And who are you?

Mycroft was sitting in his chair now and inspecting his nails! He didn't avert his eyes while answering, "Your involvement is required for something which is of utmost importance to me."

 _This man was definitely Sherlock's brother,_ John thought with a sigh and said, "Which is? And how do you know me? I am sure we have never met before."

But Mycroft Holmes responded to that question with another, "Have you heard from Sherlock or about him after you came back?"

"No."

"I thought so."

"But that doesn't answer-"

"All in good time, Dr. Watson. And to answer your second question I took liberty to research about you when all of a sudden my brother began to receive letters from the British military base of Afghanistan."

 _Ah, so this is why Sherlock hated him. Now I know why._ But John didn't say anything aloud, just waited for further clarification. The elder Holmes got up from his chair and continued.

"And my brother's reaction to your letters gave me everything I needed to know."

John gaped at that. "Did you read my letters?"

The grimace Mycroft shot at him could easily be translated as _don't be daft._

"People can learn much more if they tend to _observe_ certain things."

 _Yes, definitely Sherlock's brother._ And suddenly a thought occurred to John.

"Uh..wa-was it by your orders that I was relocated to that medical institution in Glasgow? Because I am quite sure most of the injured soldiers are usually moved to our London facility."

"Indeed. I admit that I had a small role behind your shifting to Glasgow."

"Why? Has he...has Sherlock asked you to do that?"

Once again Mycroft ignored John's question and instead asked him one, "Do you know where Sherlock is at the moment, Mr. Watson?"

Something in his tone or the way Mycroft Holmes looked at him made John's inside churn. A nameless fear grabbed him instantly.

"N-no, why?"

There was a pause.

"At a rehabilitation center."

"At a...at a... _rehab_?" The last of the sentence became almost a whisper.

No, that couldn't be. What John was thinking couldn't be true. Surely Sherlock was there for a case purpose, right? Sherlock couldn't... He wouldn't...

"He relapsed?"

Mycroft Holmes arched an eyebrow at the incredulous tone of the question.

"So, you are aware of Sherlock's... _addiction_."

It wasn't a question and even if it was John wouldn't be able to say anything, his mouth felt too dry to utter anything. Mycroft seemed to realize that as he continued on.

"Sherlock is struggling for his addiction for years now but this time it wasn't a simple relapse or I wouldn't think of bothering you, Dr. Watson."

John began to doubt whether this whole scenario was happening inside his head because the fear, the confusion, the pain he was feeling he usually felt them in his nightmares. First of all to know that Sherlock had gone back into drugs was too much to bear for his already broken mind and then he didn't have any slightest idea where did he fit into this whole thing. Why Sherlock's brother thought to bring John here and let him know about Sherlock? And above all what the fuck was going on with Sherlock?

"What's wrong with him? What happened?"

"He over dosed."

Yes, this was a nightmare. This was definitely a nightmare. He would wake up screaming and sweating at any moment now and the stupid night nurses would rush into his room to increase his humiliation. This was all happening in his head. Because he was mind numbingly terrified right now. John had seen and a few times treated some of the OD cases and it was something John never wished upon anyone, let alone Sherlock. John just couldn't imagine that that genius sharp boy reduced into some mindless addict who couldn't even tell their names. His vision had started to blur. But not now damn it, not when there was more to know.

But what would he say? What should he say? He wasn't there with Sherlock when he needed him, he couldn't stop him to push the syringe into his vein. John had failed Sherlock. He knew that. But why? Why did Sherlock do this?

"Why?"

"Dr. Watson, my brother is a brilliant and trained chemist. I do not believe for one second that he would mess up his dosage even in an extremely drug addled state, no. It was intentional. Sherlock over dosed himself deliberately."

"WHAT? Wh...why? I don't understand. I...Wh-...I don't understand."

John stared at this man stupidly. He literally had nothing left to think. Sherlock _intentionally_ overdosed?

"Do you know when was the last time Sherlock overdosed?"

 _There was another time?_

"No." John replied dumbly.

"When our mother died."

And just like that the scattered pieces of the puzzle began to fall into pattern. A vague picture was beginning to form in front of John's eyes. He slowly lifted his head and whatever he wanted to convey Mycroft Holmes seemed to understand once again as he answered John's unspoken question, "He is mourning your demise in his own way, Dr. Watson."

Slowly, very slowly John nodded his understanding and stared at the far wall without actually seeing. Sometimes the pain became so much intense that it didn't feel anything. Only numbness.

Sherlock, his Sherlock, his genius boy tried to...kill himself? To cope up with John's death? Someone he never met with? Sherlock thought of...thought of suicide? For John? But what could John do now? What good he had done to Sherlock ever? He couldn't give him anything when he was healthy and intact then what could John possibly give him now when he himself was broken? Wasn't it better to let Sherlock think that...

Mycroft's voice cut through the fog of depression and self doubt.

"Now, I have a very serious and important question to ask you, Dr. Watson and I expect your full honesty while answering me." Mycroft Holmes eyes became too sharp, too piercing to look at but John never averted his eyes from the man. He was too exhausted to feel anything anymore. He couldn't lie even if he tried to. So, he just held his gaze.

"How much do you care about my brother?"

Hah! Wasn't that the easiest question John could ever expect to answer? He had answered this question to himself long ago, after all. But he still took his time to voice his answer. He averted his eyes from Sherlock's brother and focussed at some point on the table. A sad broken smile slowly appeared on his tired face.

"Enough to let him go."

Mycroft stared at John for a long moment before going back to his side of the table. He had been standing in front of John, leaning on John's side of the table, this whole time. He opened a drawer but John didn't look at him or anywhere; his eyes had this blank lost look in them, like he wasn't even there.

Mycroft came and stood in front of John again and extended a battered envelop towards him. John slowly looked at it and blinked and then looked at the man again but didn't took it.

"It was the last letter Sherlock sent to you. It couldn't be delivered to you for the sudden attack on your main base. It came back to him. I hope you will excuse my intrusion knowing that I have already read it, for obvious reasons. But it's yours to have and you are _required_ to read it."

Mycroft gestured again to take the letter so John took it this time. He looked at the envelope. Sherlock's last letter. This letter held all the answers he had imagined for these last two months. But John felt this sudden urge to not to read it, ever. As if reading it would rob him his last refuge- his imagined future, the one which John would never have- with Sherlock. But apparently Mycroft Holmes had other plans as he went on, "My assistant will take you to the new medical facility where you would stay to complete your recovering process. You will be provided with a mobile phone to communicate with me or my assistant. And after reading this letter you would inform me when you would like to meet Sherlock."

John was listening to all these instructions with a bitter, dejected mind but his head snapped towards this irritatingly authoritative man at the last part of his monologue.

"Meet Sherlock? What do you mean?"

"It means, Dr. Watson, that you will be taken to the rehab where Sherlock is."

John was too shocked to react instantly and it took him a few seconds to wrap his mind around the matter.

"I don't want to...I don't want to meet Sherlock. No, that's not possible!"

"Of course it is possible. Why else do you think I have brought you here? Sherlock needs you."

"No, no no, no you don't understand. He doesn't need me. He doesn't. I can't...I can't go in front of him like this. This is not what he needs, I am not whom he needs. No, this cannot be. No, Mr. Holmes, I can't see Sherlock."

Mycroft Holmes didn't say anything instead he observed John for a long time. Then he turned his face towards the only window of the room.

"Have you ever held someone you care about the most in your arms while they convulsed to near death? Do you know how it feels to see someone dearest to you try to kill themselves time and again and all you can do is just watch? Knowing that you have absolutely no option to make them see reason? To save them _emotionally_? Have you, _John_? Believe me when I say that if I had other options in my hands I would not have bothered you. But apparently there isn't any except you. It is you Sherlock needs, he wants. It definitely bothers me to say that my brother's future depends upon you. You can make him or can break him forever. And I seriously hope Sherlock didn't place his faith, his... _affection_ on an undeserving man."

John kept absolutely quiet during Mycroft's speech. He didn't utter a word, didn't say he was a brother too, a brother of an alcoholic sister. He didn't say he had his own horrors too as a brother. He knew it was wrong to compare but he couldn't help but think that Sherlock was way more precious than Harry. His first impression of Mycroft Holmes wasn't something he would call positive but he couldn't deny this man's love, dedication for his brother. He couldn't deny how much trouble this elder brother had gone through only to keep his brother safe.

"Is that why you have brought me here, in London?"

"Yes, this is precisely the reason I looked for you in Afghanistan and brought you in Glasgow first and then here."

John's eyes widen, "You brought me from Afgha-What do you mean?"

"I needed to find you in order to keep Sherlock from doing something which we both might regret later. He was desperate to know you were safe."

"But then why did he do that…that thing? Nothing is making sense!"

"Sherlock thought you were dead."

"But you knew about me, you knew I was alive, surely he kne- wait! You didn't tell him? You didn't tell Sherlock about me?"

John couldn't grasp over what the actual fuck was happening. Sherlock's brother knew about him and didn't tell Sherlock! Then what the hell did he tell Sherlock? Because John was certain it took a lot more for this arse of a man to conceal this information from his brother. But John set aside this question for now as he had yet to know what The Mighty Mycroft's reason for doing so was.

"When I found you your condition was very serious; doctors weren't even sure whether you would survive your injury or not. I didn't want to give my brother false hope, it would have made the situation worse."

"More than it already is? Would there have been something worse than Sherlock trying to kill himself?" John could feel his voice rising.

"I..uh..slightly miscalculated about his attachment with you."

"Miscalculated? Mis- Jesus! You bastard! You knew, you could have prevented Sherlock's accident but you didn't! How could you?"

"I can assure you, Doctor, that no one is more remorseful than I-"

"Fuck your remorse. That won't make Sherlock better, you know."

"Which is why you are here. To make him better."

And with that all the boiling rage, all that anger brewing inside him suddenly vanished. His gaze became uncertain and painful, shoulder slumped.

John shook his head, "No, I can't. I can't."

"I do not want to put pressure on you, Dr. Watson but I will if it-"

"Don't you understand? Can't you see?"

Mycroft Holmes abhorred being interrupted mid-speech and John had done that quite a lot already but this time he really looked at John trying to see what this young soldier wanted him to see.

"What is your objection, Dr. Watson?"

John's right hand subconsciously went out to touch the left hand which was on a sling and cradled it into his chest where his second bullet wound was. He lowered his eyes, brows furrowed, as if imposed with a life altering challenge.

"I am broken." A mere whisper. Hollow, teary, fragile- just like the man himself.

With those three words, any doubt Mycroft Holmes had about this man was cleared. He looked at John some more and told in an unusually soft tone, "So is Sherlock."

John's eyes darted towards the elder Holmes brother and for a moment he thought he saw Sherlock. His Sherlock. John shut his eyes immediately.

Mycroft stood there for some moments and then moved and settled on his chair again. The moment was broken and John tried to compose himself.

"You need your rest, Doctor. Go and have it. And once you are ready, give me a call or a message and I will organize your meeting with Sherlock."

"But I haven't agreed with anything!" Exasperation was loud and clear in John's voice. _Why this man is so infuriating? Is it a Holmes trait or something?_

"Ah, well, I am sure you will once you get to think all the things over in a more…uh..familiar atmosphere." Again that bristling tight-lipped smile and a nod which told John that this conversation was over.

John actually didn't know what he was thinking or feeling or what he should do now. He realized that he didn't even care. All he wanted to do was a get himself some strong pain medications and find a bed. He was beyond exhausted. He felt drained out totally.

John stood up, glared at Mycroft some more and turned to walk to the door but again that posh-y git-y voice stopped him.

"The letter, Dr. Watson. You forgot to take the letter with you."

John turned and looked at the envelope with his name on it, in Sherlock's handwriting. He clenched his jaw, almost snatched it from the table and without another word left the room.

~0~0~0~

Once the door was closed behind him John exhaled a shaky breath.

Sherlock almost died because of him.

Sherlock needed him.

How could he save Sherlock when he was the reason Sherlock almost died?

Why Sherlock did this?

Did he…? Could he…..?

Oh, Sherlock…..

John fisted his right palm and clamped it over his mouth to stop from whimpering. A sob was working its way out of his chest. He couldn't cry now, night was allotted for that job. Suddenly he felt other presences around him and realized that there were two security personnel posted on each side of the door one of which was now quietly asking John to follow him.

John knew he should be ashamed for showing his weakness like this but he couldn't care anymore. What was left there to be ashamed of anyway when the only person he lo- cared about the most tried to take his own life because of him? He almost killed Sherlock. His Sherlock. He shouted on Mycroft for not telling Sherlock about him sooner but he himself did the same thing, didn't he? He could have called Sherlock after he was well enough, he could have asked Sherlock how he was but he didn't. All he thought about was his weakness, his broken useless life and how miserable he was. He never thought a mere news of his living could have stopped Sherlock from throwing his life away. Mycroft Holmes didn't want to give his brother false hope and John didn't want to give him any hope but both claimed they wanted the best for Sherlock. How ironical.

John limped his way towards the waiting car in front of the Diogenes Club.

~0~0~0~

It's been two days since Mycroft had that interesting and quite revealing meeting with that Army Doctor. He still didn't receive any call or message from John. Mycroft was almost sure that the attachment between his brother and the Doctor was mutual, but he also knew that both were idiots. Honestly he didn't care about John, he had no reason to but he was anxious about Sherlock's growing stoicism and aloofness. Mycroft knew if he could not persuade John to help Sherlock he would lose his brother again and probably this time for good, considering his health. But at the same time he didn't want to terrorize the doctor to get his job done as the whole situation was delicate and sentimental. In short Mycroft Holmes was stuck in between and he would die before admitting it.

Just as he was thinking about plotting something new which might leave the good doctor with no other option his phone alerted a new incoming message.

 _ **I want to see him. –JW**_

Mycroft could have done a Mary Poppins dance with his umbrella had he seen the movie. He immediately replied back-

 _ **Very well. A car will be waiting for you in front of the facility you are currently in at**_ _4pm_ _ **tomorrow. –MH**_

He didn't think he would receive a confirmation message and he was right.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock was in his room sitting in front of his window, looking over the graying nature outside. His eyes were here, but all he could see was sand, sun and a smiling young soldier with RAMC logo on his uniform.

John…

No matter how hard he tried John was always there. In his conscious, in his subconscious, in his unconscious…John was always there. John was infused with his psyche.

John. John. John.

Sherlock was sitting on the only chair of the room, chin rested over his folded knees, rocking softly.

A soft knock and then a female voice, "Sherlock, you have a visitor."

 _It's a Wednesday? So soon? Maybe it isn't. Maybe the last Wednesday was months ago. What does it matter anyway?_

Seeing that Sherlock didn't respond the nurse repeated her words again which resulted in Sherlock's reply, "I'm an addict, Natalie, not hearing impaired. I am perfectly capable of hearing you."

Apparently Natalie had gotten immune to Sherlock's barbs for she didn't even flinch and instead asked, "Do you wish to see your visitor?"

"Do I have any other choice?"

"Weeell, if y-"

"Spare me, Natalie. Lengthening your vowels won't strengthen your inane advices. I'll go and see the Holmes scion who holds all the glories of this farce of a family."

"Uh…he..is..he-"

He expressed his annoyance in a huff and almost pushed the nurse away from his door on his way out.

 _Another evening to test my patience._ Sherlock carefully slipped on his non-chalant mask. He never could fool his brother but he would never stop trying also.

He reached the visitor's room, turned the door-knob, pushed the door open, went inside just a step and stopped dead.

Sandy blond. Cobalt blue warm eyes. Golden skin. 5'6''. Lean but with a good structure. Broad shoulder. Left hand hanging from a sling. Left shoulder stiff and probably bandaged. Not probably, definitely. A checkered shirt. Brown trouser. Army issued jacket and shoes. Standing straight but right hand holding a metal cane.

 _John…._

 _John…_

"Sherlock?"

The man spoke.

 _John..._

"Sherlock? I'm-I'm…..John."

 _John._

~0~0~0~


	3. Chapter 3 Lost

Hey guys!

Thank you so very much for your wonderful reviews and lovely PMs. I can't tell you how blessed I feel everytime you say that my words have touched your heart. It's one of the greatest feelings in the world. Your supports keep me going. Thank you, my lovelies for the reviews/follows/favourites.

Thank You, **NausS, jwolf18791, HauntingMelodyofaNightmare** and **Suealpacamama** for making my days sunny and bright with your words.

Now, for this chapter, it's angsty. Sorry, but I promise things will look up soon. Also, when I wrote this chapter I was really ill, so if anything seems more weird than usual, then you know the cause.

Neither Beta'd nor Brit-picked.

I hope you enjoy the read. And if you do, please leave a review.

xxx

Abbey.

 **[][][][][][]**

* * *

 ** _"_** ** _I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited_**

 ** _But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it._**

 ** _I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded_**

 ** _That for me it isn't over."_**

\- **_'_** ** _Someone Like You'_** by **Adele**

* * *

 **Lost**

 _"_ _Sherlock? I'm-I'm….John."_

 _John._

Time stopped. Vision went blank. The sense of reality obliterated. Sherlock retrieved back to his Mind Palace.

John.

Alive.

John.

Not dead.

John.

Missing In Action.

John.

Back.

John.

Home.

John.

Alive.

Sherlock stood in the middle of his 'John-Room'. A whirlwind of words, memories, sound clips, photographs was forming rapidly. An all-shattering storm. He stood there unblinking.

 _"_ _This is not a goodbye.."_

John was alive.

 _"_ _I will come back to you."_

John was in London.

 _"_ _For you."_

John didn't contact him.

 _"_ _I like you, Sherlock."_

John was shot.

 _"_ _Try to live till I come home, yeah?"_

John was standing in front of him.

 _"_ _You are my home, Sherlock."_

John came back.

 _"_ _I'm sorry Sherlock but Dr. Watson is declared to be Missing in Action"_

Mycroft lied.

 _"_ _Are you ready to take some visitors?"_

Mycroft Knew.

John didn't contact him.

John didn't let him know that he was alive.

John didn't keep his promise.

"STOP. STOP. STOP." Sherlock screamed standing in his John-room. "Too much. Too much. Stop it. Stop everything. Stop. I must delete it. I must delete you. But how? Tell me how? I tried. Too much. You are not John, not John. John's dead. John has left me. Go away. Go AWAYYYYYY."

Sherlock kept screaming mindlessly. And suddenly, there was a voice- "Sherlock?"

Sherlock jerked up violently. As if his soul was crashing back into his body from outer space. He inhaled through his mouth. Someone was calling his name. A familiar sound. A familiar voice. An achingly familiar, concerned voice.

"Sherlock? Sh-Sherlock, are you alright? I'm so sorry, please, Sherlock? Say something? Sherlock?"

John. John was calling him. John left him. John came back. John didn't think of contacting him. John left him, like everyone else.

John came back.

But something was broken. Not only promises but something more. Something that made Sherlock's chest tight, aching. Something was not there anymore. John had broken his promises. He left Sherlock. He _left_.

John was talking to him right now, calling his name.

Reality came crashing in, pulling him out of his memories. He focussed on a pair of blue eyes. John. John stood in front of him. A panicked concern etched over his tired, haggard face. Sherlock slowly blinked to bring his full focus back to the visiting room. Back to the man standing in front of him.

"Sherlock?"

 _Not John._

The man was looking at him with so much anxiety, so much...so much...something.

 _Not John._

The man took a step closer to Sherlock. Sherlock took a step backwards.

 _Not John._

The man cringed away, as if slapped. Something broke further within Sherlock.

 _Not my John._

The man was fighting so much to hold back his tears, his emotions.

 _Not my John._

Sherlock took another step back, and another, and another. He had to get away from this man, from this room, from this reality, had to forget, again. He couldn't stand to look at this man's open, vulnerable face, couldn't stand his voice. Sherlock didn't know this shell of a man, this broken soldier.

 _My John is dead._

Sherlock staggered back and came out of the room, still facing him. The last thing he saw, rather than heard, before turning and running away was his name whispered like a last breath leaving someone desperate to live. Sherlock never looked back. He needed to get away, far away.

He had no sense of where he was going, whether he was running or walking or flying. He didn't know how many people he had bumped into while escaping from the building to the garden outside, didn't hear Natalie calling his name, didn't feel the cold outside. He just wanted everything to stop.

Sherlock ran, ran, ran. The December air cut through his heated skin like whips. The dry twigs and leaves crunched under the feet, trying to give him an alluded sadistic satisfaction and failing. He was surrounded by winter grey, but all he could see was golden skin, blue eyes and sunrays.

 _John has left me. John is dead. John is dead._

Sherlock was breathing hard, panting. He had stopped running but it didn't seem like he realized that. He stood there, in front of the pond, hidden from the building, from prying eyes. From John.

 _John. John..._

 _Oh, God._

A tremble started that grew into a full body shaking. It was like overdosing all over again. Only this time he was overdosed with emotions. The force of the truth came down on him with brutal force and he felt like trapped inside a gigantic wave from which he couldn't come out. Sherlock couldn't reach the surface.

Why did John come back? Why? No, it couldn't be. It was so cruel. It was hell to live knowing that John died but he accepted that, made truce with that hell. But now? What would happen now? How could he go on with his life knowing that John chose to keep him in the dark, chose to leave him? How could he cope with the fact that Mycroft betrayed, again? He never really valued his own life, never showed any interest about what people thought of him. He was a freak after all. But what nobody knew was that he had a hidden self too. A secret existence. A secret that John unveiled. A secret that Sherlock thought he successfully destroyed after Mummy, after Redbeard.

The secret was another Sherlock. A Sherlock who felt. Who was full of emotions. A Sherlock who hoped to connect with someone. Someone special. Someone like John.

 _John._

Now, Sherlock would have to kill that fool Sherlock all over again. But would he? Could he, knowing that John was out there, alive?

 _John is out there. Alive. Broken but alive. John has come back home._

 _But not for me._

He didn't realize he was kneeling down on the ground. Staring in the water without seeing anything. Something sticky covered his cheeks, running down from his eyes. But he didn't care. Maybe John had left already. Maybe his visitor's room was empty now. Maybe he would never see John again. John had already left a long time ago, after all. Maybe John would never come back again and that was exactly what Sherlock wanted, wasn't it? To get rid of John, to get rid of reality, to get rid of this pain? To continue living with knowing that John was out there somewhere, alive and gone forever?

Sherlock squeezed shut his still running eyes. Wrapped his arms around himself. A breath left his lips along with a name-

"John."

~0~0~0~

Natalie was really anxious about Sherlock. She was doubtful about the idea of Sherlock meeting people other than his brother as one such meeting didn't go well previously. So, when she was informed to keep an eye on Sherlock during this meeting she was practically hovering outside the room, and when she saw him stumbling away from the room she followed him. She called after Sherlock several times but he seemed to be in a trance. Not that she hoped he would respond to her anyway, but seeing Sherlock this way worried the nurse. She never saw him this vulnerable except for those early days when he was first admitted to this facility. He looked so lost. She followed Sherlock to the garden. And once she was somewhat sure that he wouldn't do anything violent, she called a ward boy to keep an eye on the patient without alarming Sherlock with his presence. She knew it was not her place to say something to any visitor but she had half a mind to give a piece of her mind to that man, some Dr. Watson.

Natalie wasn't sure whether the visitor was still there or not, but decided to check anyway. She opened the door, almost prepared to lash out as much as her position would allow her, and stopped short. Her words died down immediately. In the room there sat a man looking like he was given a death sentence. He looked so, so very broken. Like a wreckage. He was probably in his mid to late twenties but his tired, pale face and slouched shoulder gave him an air of a much older man. As if he was tired of living.

And just like that a bulb lit up within her brain and Natalie came to a vague realization about the connection between Sherlock and this poor man. It was really vague but she had enough experiences to know that if there was a smoke there must be a fire too.

"Um..." Natalie announced her presence, startling the man.

"Uh...I don't think Sherlock will be back soon, you know."

Dr. Watson looked up at her without actually seeing and said, "Oh."

It was really awkward now as Natalie didn't know what to say anymore; she knew she should ask him to leave, as was the protocol for the visitors who triggered negative responses in the inmates, but she would be damned if she told this poor man off. She was at a loss when a question from the visitor made it easy for Natalie.

"Can-can I sit here for a while? Just for a few minutes more?"

As if Natalie was capable of refusing that broken request.

"Yes, of course...of course you can, Dr. Watson. Maybe Sherlock will be back by then." She observed his reaction keenly.

"Oh...But he...won't. He won't." He looked up again and Natalie couldn't help feeling that there was a similar pattern between these two broken hearts.

She smiled and said, "Maybe not today but someday." And left.

~0~0~0~

John limped his way out of the rehabilitation facility after half an hour. A car, The Car actually, was waiting to take him back. Once he was safely inside, he let the emptiness engulf him completely. He took his time to leave the rehab not only because he was in no position to even stand without falling down for the first few minutes of the fiasco, but he wanted to savour the few minutes he would ever get to be so close to Sherlock. Sherlock who couldn't even stand his presence; who didn't even utter a single word to him. John opened his eyes and turned his head towards the window.

He had lost Sherlock for good, hadn't he?

Not that he expected a cordial welcome but _this_ wasn't like anything he imagined. He would have been happy if Sherlock chose to hit him, hurt him instead. But he ran away, he couldn't even look at John properly.

John closed his eyes again and saw Sherlock. A sob escaped his lips when he remembered the drastic change Sherlock's physical feature had gone through within these few months. He was so thin and ghastly pale. So dishevelled and lost. He looked like there were two people residing within his body. In mere seconds he went from hyper aware to a trance-like mood. He looked so different than the boy from the photograph, but still managed to look like the man John came to...like.

But what now? After his injury, John wanted to forget Sherlock, to let him go. Today he realized that Sherlock might have preferred that too but John couldn't bear the thought of leaving Sherlock now. Not now when he saw the man just as broken as himself; not now when he knew his Sherlock was real; not now when he knew he was the reason Sherlock was in that rehab. Not when John had read Sherlock's last letter. Not now. But what now?

Apparently Mycroft Holmes could read John's mind and replied his unasked question by calling him.

"Yeah?"

"How was it?"

"He ran away from me."

There was a pause.

"Well, that's a positive response, I will say."

"Don't you dare to mock my situation, Mycroft. Don't you dare after all you have done."

"Tell me, John, how did you expect Sherlock to react? Did you think he will come running _to_ you with open arms?"

"Well, no, of course not but-"

"But he is Sherlock and the way he reacted is extremely hopeful. It means he is still fighting."

"Fighting for what?"

"You. To delete you. To forget."

"Dele- he- Jesus! And that's supposed to be hopeful for me?! To know that I have truly and thoroughly fucked up everything? You fucked up everything? The letter, th-that letter have no value to him anymore? To know-"

John was rambling now, almost out of breath and Mycroft decided to cut it at last.

"John..."

"What? God...yeah, sorry...I'm, 'm sorry, alright? I just...I...I have broken my promise and broken him. I have failed him, Mycroft. I didn't...never thought Sherlock would...that he would..."

It was clearly too much for John to continue that sentence, hence jumped in the Mighty Mycroft.

"That he would value you so much."

It wasn't a question and John's only response was an audible gulp to force down that bloody lump in his throat.

A few more silent seconds later Mycroft asked, "Now, what do you propose to do?"

 _Yes, what do you want to do now, John?_ His mind repeated the question and in answer John clenched and unclenched his jaw and said, "When can I see him again?"

Mycroft Holmes could turn absolute silence into smugness as John could feel it in waves.

"Whenever you think it best but I would have taken a few days to return for the second visit if I were you."

"Alright, okay. I'll see him after two days then."

"Very well. So, till then-"

"Yeah, fuck off."

John knew Sherlock didn't want him back. He knew Sherlock wanted to forget him, to move on and John would have granted his wish if it was before. But not now. Not when he could almost recite Sherlock's letter by heart. Not when he needed to show him that he wouldn't leave, _again_.

He was too broken himself; he needed a saviour himself. But this was not about him, this was about Sherlock. His genius boy. And for him John would face his own demons a thousand times over. Saving Sherlock meant saving John's own self. Two destinies intertwined.

~0~0~0~

John came back after five days. He had to postpone because of his health, which seemingly deteriorated because of the stress. His nightmares were at their peak season. However, John Watson had a mission to accomplish and nothing could keep him from doing so. Hence, he found himself once again sitting in the visitors' room.

He was nervous to say the least. He couldn't decide of which he was more afraid - Sherlock's rejection or the confrontation. He brushed his fingers lightly over the left side of his jacket inside which was Sherlock's letter. It was almost like a déjà vu feeling for John but he refused to linger upon that thought. Instead he focussed his mind on the little piece of Sherlock which he had started to carry everywhere.

A piece of Sherlock which he had inside him. Closer to his heart. Or inside it.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock was in his room when he was informed that he had a visitor. His whole body went rigid instantly.

After that fateful meeting with John, Sherlock had withdrawn himself even more. He interacted with others even less (if that was even possible), almost stopped going outside his room and spent most of his time in his Mind Palace.

He didn't want to replay that scene, not really. But an active mind like his was not always a boon, and despite his refusal his mind played it non-stop. And the more he saw it the more he became definite that he never wanted to see that man again. He was not John. His John. His John was dead and long gone and Sherlock had no desire to face that broken little toy soldier again. So, when Natalie asked him once again if he wanted to see his visitor he shook his head and continued to recite the periodic table.

And if Sherlock was aware of the fact that what he was repeating was actually 'he is not John, he is not my John' he refused to acknowledge it.

His John was long gone. And so was his desire to believe.

~0~0~0~

When Sherlock's nurse informed him that Sherlock wouldn't be seeing him today, John wasn't really surprised as he had already thought of this possibility. But his bastard heart clenched tight nonetheless; it seemed that no matter how much he practiced he could never make his heart devoid of hope, and for that reason only when Mycroft asked him what would be his next plan, after he left the building half an hour later, John told him to set up another meeting after a few days.

He would not give up on Sherlock Holmes, not again.

~0~0~0~

This routine went on for a few more visits during which John started to come almost everyday. After one such meeting, when John left spending his self-allotted thirty minutes, Natalie came to Sherlock's room. She was at her wit's end. She couldn't stand these two idiots dancing around each other and hurt themselves anymore. She was so frustrated that she didn't even care if her unprofessional intrusion got her sacked. _Hell with it_ , she thought, _either I'm gonna kick their arses or gonna get mine kicked._

"Umm...Sherl-"

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"What 'no'?"

"No, I am not going to listen to your useless lectures."

 _Hell you will_. "But you don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"Yes, I do."

"Brat-"

"DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME THAT. Don't forget your _position_."

Natalie flinched at this sudden outburst. This was the most reaction she got from this new stoic Sherlock in days. She didn't know what triggered it but decided to let it slip, for now, and barrelled in.

"You should talk to him, he comes he-"

"Natalie."

The tone was ominous enough to make the nurse falter, but she had thrown caution to the wind the second she started this conversation, and now she wouldn't stop.

"No Sherlock, listen me. You have to listen to me this time."

She saw Sherlock's face changing colours and came to the point as quickly as possible.

"You've stopped meeting your brother; you even refused to talk to him. And that poor man, he comes here everyday, Sherlock. Have you seen his condition? Of course, you haven't but he can hardly walk. He should have been in a hospital but instead he comes here each bloody day, to see _you_. Yeah, I know it's not my place to say such things to you and yes I am aware that it's crossing a professional line, but its driving me nuts! Jesus! Sherlock I trust you, I trust your judgement...uh, well, not much...but...a little...yeah. Anyway...uh...I believe that there must be something really reasonable behind your decision not to see him but is it really that tough to forgive him, Sherlock? Doesn't he worth...uh..I don't know...a little bending of your _rules_ or something _?"_

She finally stopped, out of breath and waiting for the verbal bashing. Instead, she received a single word in reply.

"Leave."

~0~0~0~

The next time Natalie informed Sherlock about his visitor Sherlock left his room and stood in front of the closed door of the visitor's room.

 _He is not John._

Sherlock entered the room. The occupant looked at him with wide eyes, as if he couldn't really believe Sherlock would see him.

 _Not John._

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock never knew his name could be uttered in such a manner. Like a prayer.

 _Not my John._

"Sherlock?"

"I think you already know that that is indeed my name, as you are visiting me routinely. The need for confirmation, therefore, is useless."

"I...uh...that's...uh...how-how are you?"

This Not-John looked like it was paining him to breathe, Sherlock noted. As if he was facing his death. _Scared little human. How pathetic._

 _My John is dead._

"Enjoying the best days of my life. Anything else?"

Sherlock felt a sadistic pleasure when he saw how this _imposter_ , this Not-John recoiled from his words.

"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't...I...Wait!"

Sherlock was already leaving the room when this man asked him to wait. He turned, looked straight at this imposter's blue eyes. Cobalt blue.

 _Not my John._

"Why?"

"Don-Don't you-don't you want to talk to me?"

Sherlock barked out a laugh. _How pathetic_. His expression turned vicious, venomous.

"Do you think I am a willing participant in this conversation? Do you expect me to be overjoyed to see that you have decided to continue to pester me with your unwanted presence? Do you, really? Then you are even more pathetic than I considered you to be. Well, you exceed my expectations then, congratulations for that."

Sherlock wanted, he _expected_ to draw pleasure from the effects his verbal slaps had over this man, but all he felt was bitterness, all he tasted was bile.

 _Damn him and his agonized, deceiving face. Imposter. Not John. Not him. Not him._

The man held his cane so tight that his knuckles were white. He swayed a little but never averted his shocked gaze from Sherlock. It was like he was seeing an unknown man. They held each other's gaze. Sherlock wanted to rip apart every inch of this man with his piercing eyes, to expose something which would establish the justice behind his action. But this Not-John didn't even try to defend himself. He bared himself in front of Sherlock.

 _No. No. No. John is dead. JOHN IS DEAD._

"I came back, Sherlock...I came back... for you."

 _"_ _I will come back to you. For you."_

 _John is dead._

 _John left me._

 _John will never come back._

 _Never to me._

"I wish you stayed dead."

Sherlock never saw someone crumble this way before. Nothing changed physically except the man staggered back a few steps. But Sherlock saw him shatter like a broken glass. Within Sherlock something shattered too.

He looked at the man unblinkingly. Saw him drowning. Saw him fighting to breathe. Saw him crumbling down. Sherlock turned his back and left the room.

 _No. No. Not..._

 _John..._

~0~0~0~

When after four days still no one came to see him again Sherlock did what he never did before. Not willingly.

He wept.

John was alive.

He buried John.

~0~0~0~


	4. Chapter 4 Second Chance

**Hey my lovelies,**

 **I'm overwhelmed by your responses. I can't express how much it means to me to know that you feel emotionally involved with this story. Everyday, I try to find a reason to go on, and your words give me the courage, the patience I need. Thank you for your kindness, your support. It means a lot to my two boys and me.**

 **Hugs and cookies go to- Sandylee007, jwolf18791, Suealpacamama, HauntingMelodyofaNightmare, SilentRaven97 and my darling Kiddo, NausS** . **And all those wonderful people who followed/favourited the story. You guys are awesome!**

 **Also, koala hugs for my bestie, Su (MagdaTheMagpie), without her constant support this series wouldn't have been possible.**

 **Not Beta'd or Brit-picked.**

 **I hope you enjoy the read. And if you do, please leave a review. It won;t take much of your time. :)**

 **XXX**

 **Abbey**

* * *

 **Chapter: 4- Second Chance.**

 **Summary: Feels and Feels...**

* * *

 ** _"I won't go_**

 ** _I can't do it on my own_**

 ** _If this ain't love, then what is?_**

 ** _I'm willing to take the risk."_**

 **-'** ** _He Won't Go'_** **by Adele**

* * *

Whether anyone believed it or not Mycroft Holmes loved his brother. More than anything else. And that was precisely why he sat in his study in the dark, at this ungodly hour, trying to decide if he should pull his hair to vent out the agitation or not.

The whole situation was, to quote Mycroft, 'enough to disbalance one's equilibrium of sanity'. Apparently, every plan he had taken so far had gone astray. Nothing was working. The most irritating thing was that he didn't even know what happened in the last meeting. And Mycroft Holmes hated not knowing. Absolutely hated it. He never doubted Sherlock's unspoken vow about not telling him anything on this matter, but shockingly John also kept mum about that day. In fact, the doctor hadn't even bothered to reply any of Mycroft's messages or received his calls since then. But John was too valuable right now, hence, he couldn't even threaten him to do anything. And the situation was so delicate that his 'sit tight and enjoy' strategy was not really an option anymore. Not after he saw Sherlock crying.

The video footage, which showed Mycroft a weepy Sherlock, had left him so rattled, so disturbed that he even forgot to take his umbrella to work that day. His umbrella! And the problem was that he couldn't even ask about it to anyone. He couldn't ask his brother for obvious reasons, and couldn't ask his nurse or his doctor without risking telling them that he installed all those hidden cameras in his brother's room. But then what the hell should he do now?

Mycroft Holmes hair was thinning because he pulled them continuously when no one was looking. Not even any camera.

~0~0~0~

* * *

 _"_ _I wish you stayed dead"_

John woke up with a jolt, tangled in a sweat-soaked sheet. Another nightmare. For a few frantic seconds, he fought to draw enough air into his lungs to stop their burning, and by the time he was able to breathe in a somewhat erratic way, he realized that his vision was blurred. Tears.

And then the nightmare resurfaced onto his conscious level.

He stood there in front of John, in a rundown building. The air stank of smokes and blood and the smell of death. John extended his left arm towards him. His injured shoulder screamed with agony. Blood oozed out of the wound. John didn't care.

 _"Sherlock, I came back. Sherlock?"_

 _"You are broken. A broken toy."_

 _"Don't leave! Don't leave me! Please don't. Don't let me go. Save me, Sherlock? I have to go home. Save me!"_

 _"I wish you stayed dead."_

 _Sherlock lifted his right hand that clutched a gun, aimed it at John's chest and... pulled the trigger._

"No, noooooo, please, nooo...noh...no, not again...not..." John broke down like he did every time he saw this particular nightmare. He tried to remind himself why he should not just end everything and get some peace at last. He tried to forget that all he had to do was to go to the rooftop and throw himself off it. He tried to remember Sherlock's last letter. John Watson tried to be his own saviour because _his_ saviour needed him this time. So, instead of ending everything, John got up and limped his way to the bathroom.

The night bore witness of his survival.

~0~0~0~

* * *

It was Christmas morning.

Mycroft got up early, confirmed his entire day's activities with Anthea, left his home to visit the person he _missed_ most in this world.

A few hours later he found himself standing in front of a headstone. He brought lilies for her today. one of her favourites. He stood there for long, as if memorising every pattern, every crack of the stone. The slight twitch in his jaw betrayed his otherwise impassive demeanour. He didn't wish her Merry Christmas, didn't pray for her to be at peace. He just stood there holding his umbrella tightly.

When it was time to go back to his world of never ending work and responsibilities, he murmured a few words to her. Then turned his back and left to visit the person he _loved_ the most in the world.

 _"_ _I am sorry, Mummy. I have failed him."_

Whether the Christmas air carried the words to the person it was intended to, Mycroft couldn't confirm.

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock had no idea which day it was, but when he was informed that his brother was there, he thought it might be a Wednesday. He had previously thought that he would probably never be able to face his brother without murdering him, but he felt nothing at the moment. No white hot rage, no blood-curdling hatred, no mind numbing anguish, nothing. Instead, he got up, left his room and stood in front of the visitor's room. This was the first time he would be entering this room after that day. After... Sherlock pushed that thought away viciously and blanked his mind out before entering.

Mycroft sat there, with all his moronic attitude and exaggerated air of damned superiority. But the moment he saw his brother, Sherlock knew that something about Mycroft was off today. He seemed...he seemed _tensed_. If it was before, Sherlock would have started to plan the numerous ways in which he could use this information against his brother, but today he just took the empty chair, seated himself and stared at the elder Holmes blankly. Mycroft's unease increased visibly.

"Happy Christmas, brother dear."

Sherlock kept on staring.

"How are you?"

No response.

"Oh, for God... Say something, Sherlock."

Yes, there was definitely something off about Mycroft as Sherlock rarely saw his brother lose his composure this quickly, but he deliberately ignored it and he said instead, "What do you want me to say?"

"What happened that day?"

"Which day?"

"Don't be especially difficult."

"Don't be especially vague, then."

An exasperated sigh later Mycroft responded, "The last day of John's visit."

"Why, all those hidden camera footages are not enough to sate your overzealous curiosity?"

Mycroft's slightly widened eyes were all that told Sherlock about his brother's surprise in knowing that Sherlock was aware of their presence.

"You knew yet didn't try to report them. That's a fine progress to be mature, I would say."

Sherlock's smirk was anything but amused.

"Oh, no brother, do not jump into any hasty conclusion, for it was not my lack of intention, I can assure you. It was simply that I failed to convince the halfwits that my own brother was trying to spy on me in his own appointed rehab. After my first attempt earned me some more medicines for my 'paranoia', I simply ignored it."

"Ah, well, I am glad of the outcome anyway. What happened with John?"

No avoiding this time then,

Sherlock thought, _not that it matters anyway._

"John died, that's all happened."

"He did, indeed, but that's for an-"

Mycroft stopped abruptly. It was Sherlock's face that stopped him mid-speech. This was the first time in months he saw his brother showing so many emotions at once. He looked curious, angry, agitated but above all, he looked afraid. Mycroft chose to answer the question which was written all over Sherlock's face, but which, he was sure, Sherlock would never voice.

"John flat-lined during the operation. He clinically died for a few minutes. In fact, according to the doctors, it was quite a miracle that he survived those injuries."

Sherlock's attention was rapt and his face was closed carefully. He had sensed his earlier slip and amended quickly. He was determined to extract as much information as he could without being obvious, and not to ask anything voluntarily. But damn Mycroft for seeing through his plan, as he chose not to elaborate anything further and kept quiet. Damn him. But no, Sherlock was not going to play along. He was past this. He was past everything.

"Is there any reason you have decided to fill me with all these inane details?"

"You need to know."

"No, I do not."

"Yes, you do, and you need to sort things out with John, too."

There was so much Sherlock could bear.

"Oh, really? So, _now_ you think I need to know? Do tell, brother, why this sudden act of benevolence?"

The bastard had the gall to look exasperated, after every misdeed he had done! Sherlock struggled to refrained himself from bolting out of this room.

"I did it for your own safety, Sherlock."

"And yet, here we are." Sherlock deadpanned, looking around with his arms stretched out in a grand gesture, as if addressing a large audience. Then he turned to his brother, eyes narrowed in a shrewd manner, "Ironical, isn't it? Or was this you plan all along?"

It was satisfying to see that this remark earned him a look of mild guilt from his brother.

"I did not want to give you any false hope. The chances of his survival were very thin."

"False hope?" Sherlock roared, "False hope? Is this how you justify your incriminating actions every time you decide to betray me?"

"If keeping you safe means omitting some truths then I will do that whenever necessary."

"Even if it costs my life."

Mycroft flinched visibly. It was almost like a challenge for Sherlock to elicit any kind of emotional reaction from his brother, and whenever he succeeded in doing so it tasted like victory, but today there was only bitterness within him. And a deep, deep hollow.

"I am not proud of my actions and it pains me to admit that I misjudged the risk factor of the situation." Mycroft stopped again and got up from his chair. He stood in front of the window and stared outside. "I did what I thought was best for you at that moment. But Sherlock, be careful this time. Please, do not do anything, to spite me or John, which you may regret in future." Mycroft turned to his brother, who was eerily quiet during the entire monologue, looked at him for a moment and said, "Do not ruin something that you can have with John, something that you never had with...with the other two situations." He began to walk towards the door, but his brother's voice stopped him.

"Which is?"

Mycroft didn't turn face Sherlock while answering.

"A second chance."

There was a long pause. A tensed and meaningful one.

"You've taught me that caring is not an advantage."

"When you care for someone you hold dear, the consequences of the act do not matter."

"Well, you forgot to teach me that."

"And I regret it among many other things."

Mycroft Holmes left, and a very stunned and confused Sherlock stood in that empty room to contemplate this _unusual_ meeting.

A second chance.

Christmas was marked for a new beginning, wasn't it?

~0~0~0~

* * *

It was Christmas. The second one after he had met Sherlock. A year had passed in between. For some, it was just a few mere months, for John it was a lifetime ago.

He stared out of the window, to the street below. Stream of life. Happy Londoners basking in festive spirit. How dearly he wished to be one of them; how desperately he wished to spend this very evening with Sherlock. How he wished to have a life where he wouldn't be alone. Where he would be with someone he... And now here he was- alone, lost, broken. Without a future, without Sherlock, without a life.

"

 _I wished you stayed dead."_

Me too, Sherlock…me too.

Death was not an option, but what was there to live for? Should he give up on Sherlock? Sherlock didn't want him anymore; he practically wished him dead. The man he wanted to live for welcomed his death...or at least that was what he was told. But was he thinking clearly this time? Sherlock's actions or his words- what he should value more? He assumed and took a decision once, and that destroyed his friendship with Sherlock. He didn't want that to happen again, but what was left there to be ruined anyway? Wasn't everything finished already? Hadn't he fucked up his chances royally? Or would there be a second chance? Should he let go of Sherlock? Or not?

 _Ding._

A text alert. John knew it was Mycroft, without even looking at it. Who else was there to message him? He didn't tell Harry or Mike that he was back in London. And he was pretty sure about not getting a text from Sherlock, ever again. So that left him with only one person- Mycroft Holmes.

John had stopped answering the git's texts or calls after that day, but he read them all. Just in case…

He took the mobile from the table and opened the text.

 _ **"**_ ** _He will not survive your loss twice. –MH"_**

He had no idea for how long he stared at the text, but when his vision started to blur, he averted his eyes and looked up to the sky from his window. His decision was made and he couldn't even guess why he thought otherwise, ever.

John Watson would not give up on Sherlock Holmes.

~0~0~0~

* * *

Mycroft almost sagged in his chair with relief when he received and read the text from John that night. Well, almost.

He had been a fool to underestimate John Watson's influence over his brother, but he had learned his lessons long since. Of course, he would still keep meddling, but this time he would not tamper with it. No matter how hard was that for him to do, this time he would take a back-seat. Almost.

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock received the letter when he was replaying an old crime scene in his mind. It'd been three days since his meeting with his brother.

Natalie knocked, came into his room and informed him that he had a letter. She put it on the bedside table and left quietly. Everything within Sherlock froze.

He couldn't open the letter until it was late at night. Once he saw that slightly slanted and almost unintelligibly crooked handwriting on the envelope, he couldn't even dare to look at it again. He knew what that letter was, from whom that letter was, and that knowledge numbed all his senses.

For once in his life, he had no idea what that letter contained, and a part of him didn't want to know. But a bigger part of him, the part who spent his entire time sitting in the John-Room of his Mind Palace, wanted nothing but to tear that envelope and know if there was any hope left.

When there were no more excuses left to delay the inevitable, Sherlock took the letter in his trembling hands.

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock,

I must apologize for my late reply. In my defence, all I can say is that I received your letter just a few days ago and I was a bit preoccupied since then.

I am in London now but I haven't been home yet, or I should say my Home has refused to accept me. And now I am lost. I have been lost for a long time now. Will I ever be able to find my way back home, Sherlock?

I miss you. I miss you so much. It's a physical pain. I feel like falling from a cliff, face upwards, hoping to see your face for one last time before crashing down on the rocks beneath. I dream about you. It was you I reached for, regaining my consciousness after the operations. I am still at a private medical facility, still recovering and still trying to reach for you. The nurses say that I sometimes scream your name in my sleep. I think I search you in my dreams too. Will I ever find you again, Sherlock?

I know you hate me now. I hate myself too. I knew you would hate me as soon as I woke up in that hospital. But there is a difference between then and now. Before, I thought you would hate me because I was broken, useless. I was nothing but a ghost of my former self. But now I know how utterly foolish I was. Now I know that you hate me because I failed to understand what mattered to you most. It was the promises; the promises of coming back. It was me. You would never have rejected me just because I was broken. I know that now. And I am sorry for taking so long to figure that out. But am I too late, Sherlock? I don't want to be, but am I?

I read your letters every damn day. Those are the only moments I feel alive. For me they are you. I cling to them to remind myself that there is still a place for me where I can belong. Maybe this is just wishful thinking, maybe you are having a good laugh at my idiocy, but what else do I have other than this hope? What else do I have other than you?

My promises are broken, I am broken, the thread connecting us is broken too. I wanted to live desperately when I was dying. I wanted to see you, wanted to be with you. My last conscious memory was you calling my name. No, I am not telling you these to draw your sympathy. I am not playing the 'pity card'. This time, I really think I have lost you forever, and it scares me to no end. It was easier to say goodbye when I didn't even know if I would be alive next hour or not. But now, how can I go on knowing that there will be days, years to come without you in my life? How can I give up when I don't even know how to give you up? I tried, Sherlock, I seriously tried, but I couldn't do it. I convinced myself that removing me from your life would be the best thing I can do for you, but I still couldn't do it. I mean, how can I, when you are the best thing that has ever happened to me? You are the miracle I have been waiting for all my life, Sherlock. Can I come back?

I have come back, only for you. Now I want to come back to you. Will you let me? Will you give me a second chance? Will my last wish come true? Or will you let me go forever?

I will go away if you want me to, but I will be lost forever.

I am a fool and I am so sorry that it took me too long to realize that I am broken without you.

Always yours,

John.

P.S. If it is a goodbye then I want you to know that I am glad I survived the war, because seeing you with my own eyes was worth more than any pain I have gone through. You are worth more than anything.

~0~0~0~

* * *

The next morning when Natalie came to Sherlock's room, she found him sitting just the way he was last night, only this time he was clutching a letter to his chest with both of his hands, as if it was his life-line. He looked like a ghost.

Of course, she had an idea from where the letter had come if reading it made Sherlock look like _that_. But still she approached carefully, with a pretended casual air.

"Morning, Sherlock. Had any sleep?"

No answer. Not even a scowl.

 _Green signal,_ thought Natalie.

"Sooooo...um...that letter...from family?"

No insults came flying. No response either.

 _Okay, go on girl._ "I get letters from my aunt sometimes, you know. So, from a...friend?"

Still nothing.

Natalie observed Sherlock minutely this time to confirm that no, Sherlock was not catatonic.

 _Okay, do or die, march on_ , "Um...from that Doc then, maybe? You know that Dr. Watson or something?"

Silence.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_... Natalie huffed with irritation, and just when she turned to leave, Sherlock spoke.

"John...his name is...John."

Natalie knew she was grinning like a loon.

~0~0~0~

* * *

 **A/N: This letter, to some extent, is personal. I wrote a letter like this to someone I lost forever. Yes, I'm sharing some very personal thoughts with you, because you are really that much special to me. But the point is, it may sound sappy but the emotions are true; not conjured up for the sake of dipping the chapter with feels. I really hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey my lovelies!**

 **Another chapter. This one was written about 6 months ago (when I was buried deep in workload; umm, story of my life, actually) , and while giving it a read over I wanted re-write the whole thing. I feel so frustrated. Please don't leave my boys if you don't like it. They'll do better, John promised. And also, I am uploading my first Crackfic ever (to compensate all the angst this fic is giving you)! Please give it a shot and let me know. Shameless self-promotion? Hell yeah!**

* * *

 **The amazing people who shower their kindness and positive thinking after each chapter-** **Nauss** **,** **Suealpacamama** **,** **Companion Teresa** , **jwolf18791** **,** **Sandylee007** **,** **HauntingMelodyofaNightmare** **and** **SilentRaven97**

 **You guys are wonderful. I can't tell you how eagerly I wait for your review. And I so, so sorry for not replying to your reviews/messages last week. I had a crazy week. But I promise I'll write back to you shortly. I feel horrible for taking so long. Forgive me?**

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 **If it worths your time, leave a review, yeah?**

* * *

 **Chapter:5**

 ** _"_** ** _Did the darkness of their days_**

 ** _Make them let go of their light?_**

 ** _Will they want to find a way_**

 ** _To make it alright?"_**

\- ' ** _Little Broken Hearts_** ' by **Norah Jones**

* * *

"Sherlock, where is my phone?"

"Do I look like your phone keeper?"

"Give me my phone back."

"I don't have it."

"Yes, you do, you great git."

"Isn't it against your work ethics to curse your _fragile_ and _innocent_ patients and accuse them with false allegations?"

"No, it is not. The rules are applicable for humans only, not Satan reincarnated."

"Your flair for dramatics is impressive. Wrong choice of career, I would say."

"Give. Me. My. Phone, dammit or I'll smack you on the head."

"I would like to see you try or I can always report you."

"Fuck me if I care."

"Not really my area."

"Berk. And why on earth do you need my mobile anyway? You are allowed to call from the landline in the hall, you know."

"I prefer to text."

"Riiiiiiiiiight. God, you...Sherlock, sweetheart, will you be a darling and tell me where the hell did you hide my phone, please?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Natalie, but I do not expect someone like you to know that."

"MY PHONE, SHERLOCK?"

"Fine. It's in that old bat's fish bowl."

"Fish bo...what? WHAT? You mean you put my phone into Mrs. Mackenzie's fish bowl? In the water? With the fi-what the fuck, Sherlock?"

"Now, shoo shoo."

Before Sherlock could finish his shooing, Natalie dashed out of the room cursing loudly and missing the diabolical smirk on her patient's face.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Mycroft was video conferencing when he received two texts from...from Sherlock's _nurse_! He was quite surprised as he was certain that that nurse didn't have his personal number. Immediately worry engulfed him but the meeting was too important to dodge. Hence, for the rest of the meeting Mycroft Holmes kept a pace of a fighter jet.

At last when he got out of the conference room and entered his own office, he promptly opened the texts.

The first said:

 ** _"_** ** _Bring John Watson at the earliest, if convenient. –SH"_**

And then:

 ** _"_** ** _If inconvenient, bring him anyway. - SH"_**

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, a smug smile slowly began to appear on his face, but it disappeared the next instant.

 _How did Sherlock access his nurse's phone? Is she supplying him with anything else?_

He would have to arrange a _meeting_ with this nurse, it seemed. But that could wait for now as he had news to give to the good doctor.

His brother was back.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John didn't know what to feel, what he should feel. He knew he should be ecstatic because this was exactly why he wrote that letter to Sherlock. He wanted a second chance, but now that he was informed that Sherlock wanted to see him, all he could feel was fear and dread. Before he thought if only he could get a chance to meet Sherlock again he would probably run all the way to his rehab. But now, when his wish had come true he wanted to run _from_ it. John realized that he was scared. Scared of rejection. Scared of the moment when he would know that there was no hope left. At least he had an illusion now, a hope that everything would be alright eventually but once Sherlock bid his farewell what would happen then? How would John go on knowing that he had completely blown up his chances to have a life again? A life where he could have been useful…

John sighed and got up from his bed. Not going was never an option; delaying the inevitable would only increase his dread. He still had a few hours before the meeting and he hoped that he could finish the things he wanted to do in between; something which would require him to roam around the city. John gave himself a mental nod and prepared to face his judgement day.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

As soon as Mycroft received a text from Anthea, informing him that John Watson just went out of the nursing home, Mycroft called him. Yes, he was on the verge of being paranoid about this whole mess and no, he would never admit it to anyone.

"Hello, John, isn't it a bit early for the meeting?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Going somewhere?"

"How did- nevermind, nevermind at all. Yes, I've some things to do before the meeting."

"What?"

"That's none of your business, dammit."

"If you are trying to avoid the meeting then it _is_ my business."

"Trying to _avoid_? Avoid? You may not have realized it yet but I am invested in this more than you are, Mycroft. I know you still doubt my sincerity towards your brother, but for once in your life stop acting like a panicked, suspicious grandma."

"Take the car. The driver will take you wherever you want to go."

"No I won't. And if you think I will be able to _escape_ dodging your hawks and hounds, then I must say you hold me in high regard."

"Ah, of course. Take the car if you do not want the car to follow you everywhere."

"I DON'T want that kidnap car anywhere near me, Mycroft!"

"Then be in it and end the fuss."

"Oh, piss off, you bloody bastard."

Mycroft pocketed his phone with a sigh. _Among all the people why on earth Sherlock has to choose an equally bull headed….friend?_

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock couldn't stop pacing. Not because he was tense, no absolutely not, never in hell, no way, nope. He was pacing like Japanese bullet train because he was bored, and wanted to strengthen his calf muscles, and didn't know whether John would show up or not, and was at a loss as to what to say if John showed up at all and...oh, bloody hell, yes he was nervous, all right?

He didn't receive any response from Mycroft but he knew his brother would bring John anyhow. But would John come _willingly_? Yes, John had sent him the letter but what if John changed his mind meanwhile? And...and what if Sherlock couldn't work up the courage to face John, _again_? What if he again couldn't relate this John to his memories? Couldn't make the connection between John's letter and the person he was going to meet today? What if Sherlock could never find John, _his John_ again?

His head was buzzing, spinning which had nothing to do with his fast pacing. He didn't know how to handle all these. Sherlock Holmes didn't do emotions. How was he supposed to act now? How?

 _Deduction._

Yes, that was the solution of his entire problem. He would deduce John. That was the only way he could find out his John. If he didn't like John (hah! Like that was even remotely possible) then he could always deduce the life out of him, and scare him away. And if he liked John, well, then John could be impressed and awed by his deductive skills if he wanted to, not that Sherlock would care, mind. But it was a perfect plan.

In between all the pacing and plotting Natalie came once, to yell at him. Apparently she had, at last, found her phone after hours of searching. No, it wasn't that much tough to find out; it was indeed in a fishbowl but without fish or water, tied to a tree branch behind the building, slightly hidden from plain sight. Stupid blind people. Sherlock made it easier for her to find out, but even then she complained. Ingrates.

Oh, and the fish was well and alive, swimming proudly in a drinking-water jar.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John's palms were sweating, profusely.

He was now sitting in the visiting room in Sherlock's rehab, trying and failing to shove off all the bitter memories from the last visit and reassuring himself that coming here was the right decision he made (not that he had much of a choice but still...)

The door suddenly burst open and John almost fell from his chair.

 _Sherlock._

Sherlock stood there, hair looking like bird's nest, clad in pajamas which had... _tiny magnifying glasses_ printed all over it. John gaped for a moment then looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, and shut his mouth promptly.

Sherlock was scowling.

The momentarily forgotten panic rushed in and John clenched his jaw tight.

 _Brace yourself, John Watson._

Sherlock kept scowling. John had never seen someone scowl with so much _passion_. After a few moments, which felt like a millennium to John, Sherlock crossed the room and sat on the opposite chair, hands steepled in front of his chin as if praying, never taking his eyes off John. John felt naked under that stare and looked away. He looked at his chair instead, and sat down with a bit of difficulty.

Now he had no other choice but to look at Sherlock again. This was more awkward and unnerving than John had ever anticipated. At last when it became too much for him to bear the tension, and Sherlock's I'll-scowl-the-life-out-of-you stare began to shred his nerves, he attempted a conversation. If Sherlock hadn't thrown him out yet, then there was a hope that he might have a faint chance surviving this, hadn't he? So, he could take a risk, right?

"Erm..."

 _Bravo, John Watson, bravo for your eloquence._

Sherlock's scowl deepened more.

John's stomach had dropped long ago and now it vanished completely. And that was the exact moment when his fight or flight instinct kicked in. John Watson would successfully start an adult conversation and show the world what he was capable of before dying of the radiation that _that stare_ emitted.

"Erm...your..." his chin flicked towards Sherlock's chest, "your pajamas have...uh...magnifying glasses on them." He finished the sentence with a forced out laugh that actually sounded like mewling.

 _Very adult topic, indeed._

But points to John, as this elicited a response from Sherlock at last. He sniffed haughtily, lifted his chin and said, "Better than keeping a fake limp and a metal cane."

John paled, looking like someone had wiped his face with a blotting paper.

"What?"

"That limp is psychosomatic." Sherlock said with a grimace.

John mentally cringed away from that gesture. _He hates me; he hates that I am not only physically broken but also mentally pathetic. Who can blame him though?_

"Uh..yes, yes it is. But how…do you know?"

Sherlock gave John a look which John easily interpreted as 'are you seriously that thick?' but went on elaborating anyway.

"When you stand you do not lean on your cane, not always. In fact, to be precise, you never leaned on it when your focus was on me but whenever you get self conscious, just like when you looked away from me before sitting, its presence pops up which indicates that you are aware of it only when you are distressed. You were nervous about meeting me, but there were some elements of unexpected danger or rush of excitement that forced you to forget all about that limp which, again, means your body craves the adrenalin, which as a consequence, means your Psychosomatic limp will disappear once you get out of your current dull and boring life."

John didn't know for which he should be amazed more- the fact that Sherlock had hit the bull's eye about his limp, or the fact that Sherlock could talk this long without stopping for breath once, or….or that Sherlock deduced him!

 _He deduced me._

 _Yes, that wasn't very flattering but at least he seemed interested enough to take the trouble. At least he didn't shut me off instantly. I can still hold his focus. That's a good sign, isn't it?_

These questions, doubts, hopes fleeted through John's mind and his eyes searched Sherlock's still scowling face for the reassurance he desperately needed. But when his wandering mind got some of its concentration back he realized, to his horror, that Sherlock's face was closing down and a blank mask, devoid of any expression, taking its place. Panic rose when John realized the cause- he hadn't responded to that deduction.

 _Oh, shit._

"Th-that was…brilliant"

 _Eyes widening, blinking rapidly. Positive response. I still have a chance._

"Brilliant and quite extraordinary."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I-yeah, absolutely. It was amazing."

"Oh... Erm...alright."

John found himself smiling with all his heart, for the first time since the night his whole life turned upside down.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock's breath hitched.

He knew that smile. He _knew_ that smile. He felt the warmth it emitted, the warmth he stored carefully away in his memories. And now, _he_ was causing it. It was directed at _him_.

Stilled picture came into being. Memories mingled with reality.

He was causing this smile.

He was making John smile like this.

John.

 _His_ John.

Sherlock's mind took him to that first chanced meeting when he deduced about John just like today. He deduced to drive him away, but he kept coming back instead. Kept coming back, kept on praising Sherlock, called him his best friend, gave Sherlock hope, changed his world.

That was his John. His strange John.

This John also didn't leave him after his brutal deduction, also kept trying to convince Sherlock, kept on reminding Sherlock about all the hopes, the promises they shared.

This John had broken them, of course, but he came back. He replied back. He smiled at him. He thought Sherlock was brilliant.

This John did all those things too.

This John was his John too.

His John.

 _His_ John.

Sherlock pursed his lips, blinked some more and gave John a short nod.

He still didn't forgive this idiot…..completely.

But now he….knew.

"You died."

It wasn't a question but John answered anyway. _Idiot, trying to be polite always_.

"Uh…yes, I did."

"Interesting."

John just snorted which was actually meant to be a chuckle.

 _He is getting nervous. His hands are shaking again. He is cradling his left hand, again._

"Your handwriting is as unintelligible as before," came Sherlock's next statement. John looked lost. Sherlock continued.

"It indicates that your shoulder injury will not hinder most of your work."

After a moment understanding dawned upon John, and Sherlock, once again, realized that this was his John indeed.

 _He is still an open book. He is still the same._

"I won't be able to perform surgery again."

"Well, if cutting others open interests you so much then there is always an option to be a serial killer. In fact I may assist you at the beginning of your career by giving you some creative tips. I know at least 348 ways to kill a person without getting caught."

John burst out laughing, startling Sherlock. It was full of not only amusement, Sherlock noted quite surprisingly, but also with fascination and something like…like _fondness_.

Everything felt so alien to Sherlock. Nobody had ever laughed hearing that he could kill in such a varied way before; nobody accepted his 'freakish' behaviour so openly; nobody looked at him like that, like he was something precious. Everything was so foreign yet Sherlock felt like he had found his home at last. He could breathe again.

Sherlock looked at John who was currently shuffling through a brown gift bag, made of expensive paper and bore the logo of a famous brand. The bag was new but John's careful handling told Sherlock that he was not habituated to buy from this particular store, obviously for their price tags. Not that Sherlock had to _deduce_ the last part considering he already had knowledge about the comparatively low salary of the soldiers and their even lower pensions. But the rest of the things he noticed just after entering the room, when he saw the bag leaning on the seat John took.

But what Sherlock didn't understand was why John brought this ba- _Ah, so this is why_.

A moderate-sized box, wrapped in a bottle green and silver paper, was being pushed towards him on the table. John's voice followed.

"Um..uh..this is for you."

"Really? I thought it was for your imaginary friend who is currently occupying the next seat beside me."

"Huh?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head in response.

"Don't you think that you are a bit late for this year's Christmas, or a bit early for the next one?"

John looked hesitant and bashful. He was looking at the table where his right index finger was scratching the wood.

"It's….uh…it's for your coming birthday," he lifted his eyes and looked up.

Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension.

Oh _. Oh._

 _He still remembers my birthday. He hasn't forgotten, after all these months. He bought a gift for my birthday, even after all the things I said to him. Even after…_

 _My John._

But the only thing he said to John in reply was, "Boring."

Because Sherlock Holmes was a little shit.

But apparently John hadn't reached the level yet where he could interpret this 'boring' as 'I-am-squealing-in-happiness-but-too-moronic-to-say-that'. So, as a result John's shoulder slumped in dejection (only the right one) "Oh."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, _oh for heaven's sake_ ….

"But I will accept it considering it is rude to refuse a gift." Said the prat with that pratty haughty attitude of his, and saw John's eyes turned like saucers and his face lighting up like Christmas lights.

 _Yes, definitely my stupid and idiotic John._

"Thank you," said John. His face glowing.

Sherlock just 'hm'd' in response and stood up abruptly because no matter how he wanted to pretend to be non-chalant and unaffected in front of John, he was actually trembling with emotions within. It was way too much for him to continue this meeting any further, and his brain was sure to shut down completely if he did. Hence, Sherlock needed to escape as soon as possible. But not before ensuring that he should not lose his John again.

He just found him. Found John.

Yes, he was still angry, there were still many questions left to be answered. Everything was still not alright between them, but he would be a fool to let John go again. However, for now he needed to sort his feelings out, re-arrange his Mind Palace, needed to be with himself.

"I do not wish to continue this chat endlessly. This meeting is over."

Sherlock looked down his nose and saw John looking like as if a truck had hit him with all its force. Sherlock wondered if _this_ could cause such a reaction then how did John look like after their last meeting. He realized that he did not want find out.

John stood up after much effort and whispered, "Oh, al-alright."

John's jaw was clenched tight and his Adam's apple bobbed. Sherlock observed

 _He thinks I am rejecting him…again._

An unknown ache shot through Sherlock's chest.

He looked at this vulnerable man, who was avoiding his gaze deliberately, and said, "I will be busy tomorrow but I may consider seeing you again the day after. Time will be the same and I prefer punctuality."

With this the great Sherlock Holmes, with magnifying glasses on his pajamas, turned and left the room, nose almost touching the sky. But not before he saw John's jaw hung open and his whole face splitted into half with a smile that made Sherlock's mouth go dry.

Sherlock also made sure to grab the gift before leaving.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

The next morning, after the _compulsory_ group breakfast which Sherlock joined for the _first_ time, shocking everyone, Natalie cornered Sherlock.

"You have been wearing that blue scarf since last night." Her eyes were narrowed, as if deciphering a secret code.

"Either you start to learn how to form proper questions or stop bothering people with your inane statements. I have time for neither."

"Why?"

"Because I have a brain which do not feed on stupidity."

"Why are you wearing it?"

"Is there any rule that will prevent me from protecting myself against the cold?"

"Gotcha! John gave it to you, didn't he? When he came yesterday?! Oh my God, Sherlock! That's so cute! I am so happy that you resolved whatever problem you had. I'm so HAPPYYY!"

"I didn't know you were epileptic. Should I inform the doctors that you are having a seizure at the moment?"

"It won't work, darling. I knew you were a sap and now it is confirmed. Hah."

"You will NOT be able to find your phone this time."

"Wha-oh shit, oh fuck. SHERLOCK! Give me my phone, you thief."

* * *

~0~0~0~


	6. Chapter 6: New Beginning Pt-I

**_Hey guys,_**

 ** _How are you? Did you watch the Christmas Special trailer?! Did you like it? John's moustache though!_**

 ** _Anyway, here is the next chapter. A tad bit angsty, but we get to see another side of Sherlock. I have split the chapter in two parts. This is the first one. The next will come soon. I hope you like it. And please review. Your words help me with my writing process._**

 ** _Not Beta'd or Brit-picked._**

 ** _Cookies and hugs to-_** **omgeology** **,** **malya** **,** **SilentRaven97** **,** **Sandylee007** **,** **Suealpacamama** **,** **Smita,** **jwolf18791** **and my Kiddo,** **Nauss** **. And all those wonderful people who favourited/followed this story or me. You have no idea how you help me with my stumbling, fumbling and finally writing. Your reviews make me immesly happy. Thank you so much! Love you all!**

 **xxx**

 **Abbey.**

* * *

 ** _Chapter-6 : New Beginning Pt-I_**

 ** _"_** ** _Funny you're the broken one_**

 ** _But I'm the only one who needed saving_**

 ** _'_** ** _Cause when you never see the light_**

 ** _It's hard to know which one of us is caving."_**

-' ** _Stay_** ' by **Rihanna** feat **Mikky Ekko**

* * *

John Watson was happy.

Despite his PTSD, despite his psychosomatic limp, despite his uncertain future, John Watson was happy.

Because he had gotten another chance to meet Sherlock Holmes.

Army had taught John many things, and among them the most fundamental one was to appreciate every living moment. To appreciate every little positive thing that life presented. And the moments, which John had spent with Sherlock in their last meeting, were more than something to be merely appreciated. They should be celebrated, because they made John feel alive again. They made John realize that his Sherlock was still there. There was still hope.

His next meeting with Sherlock was today but there was something special about it. It's New Year's Eve and the rehab let the family members or friends to spend the eve with their patients. John wasn't aware of it as Sherlock, obviously, didn't tell him. It was Mycroft who informed him about it and told him that he could spend the time with Sherlock if he wanted.

 _If_ he wanted? Hah! Mycroft had no idea.

Or had he?

Oh hell, of course he had.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure about today. He was aware of the fact that today was a family night when he asked (ordered, actually) John to come, but he wasn't sure whether John would come or not. John must have been aware of it by now, thanks to Sherlock's nosy brother, but would he come? John seemed quite eager to meet him again but would he back off now knowing that it was a family night? Would he _want_ to spend his New Year in a rehab? With someone like Sherlock?

Sherlock absent-mindedly fidgeted with the cuff-links of his crisp white shirt which he had chosen to wear with his Savile Row suit. Mycroft had sent them for today's event. Not that Sherlock had any obligation to doll up for this thoughtless, preposterous occasion. But wearing one of his favourite suits after so long had felt like the right thing to do. It had absolutely nothing to do with John. Sherlock didn't care how he would look in front of that idiot.

"You know, a combed head will look good with that overpriced suit of yours."

Ah, of course, another meddler.

"I do not remember asking for your advice."

"But I know you were dying for my beauty tips."

"I am sure 'privacy' is an alien concept for you, but it is still a part of this society and I quite like to practice it."

" _Sherlock Holmes_ talking about privacy?! Has the world ended already and now we are living in an alternate universe?! Anyway, I just thought John would probably like to see you in a more Prince Charming-y fashion."

"Charming-y? I must say that conversing with you has enriched my pragmatic competence immensely."

"Huh?"

"And why, do tell, John would like to see me as a fokelore character created by the stereotypical mindset of the common mass?"

"W-weeeeel-"

"Yes, thought so. Now, you can remove yourself from this room."

"Prat. But John will definitely like you better if you comb that bird's nest. "

As soon as Natalie left the room, Sherlock dashed for the en-suit. There was a mirror which would help him with his yearly combing. He was _not_ doing this for John, of course. It would just look good with his suit, that was all.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John was running late. He was unsure about what to wear and ended up being late. John didn't have any formal wear with him, except for his uniform. Mycroft subtly hinted that if John wanted to wear something formal he could arrange it, but John would rather wear a towel than to accept that offer. So, he ended up wearing a simple pale blue button down, brown trouser, a jumper and his winter coat. He wanted to wear something nice today and sighed heavily when he looked at himself in the mirror. No amount of fancy clothing could cover up this broken frame.

It was not like he could impress Sherlock anyway.

Just as he was about to enter the 'kidnap car', someone called him from behind and everything froze around him.

"John?"

John knew that voice.

"Johnny? Is that you? John?"

He grew up hearing that voice.

"Oh my God! It's you, it's ...oh God, oh...John."

 _No no no. Not now. Not today. Not now. Please. No._

"John!"

He knew a storm was coming. He closed his eyes, mentally steeled himself and turned back.

"Harry."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

It was almost thirty minutes past the scheduled time, but John still hadn't come yet. Sherlock went twice in his private visiting room. Now he was in his own room, standing in front of the window, fidgeting.

Natalie knew Sherlock was tense. It was an important day for him. He may not be as emotionally constipated as his brother, but Sherlock's make-believe impassivity could fool anyone who wouldn't know this boy. Natalie saw through this façade of his just a few days after she met Sherlock, and since then Natalie was unable to see Sherlock only just as a patient.

She, like the rest of the staff, was crazy busy today. The staffs here could not indulge themselves in such festivities; some of Natalie's colleagues weren't really happy about it. They had families, friends too and who would not want to spend this day with their dear ones? Natalie couldn't blame them but she never had any problem with it. It was not like she didn't have any social or personal life beyond this clinic, but most of the people who came here were social recluses and seeing them surrounded by their loved ones, seeing their smiling faces, gave Natalie such happiness which, she doubted, any outing with her friends could ever give. She was happy here. But now her anxiety level was rapidly increasing. She knew how special John was to Sherlock; his condition improved impressively after that army doctor started to visit. But she also knew if John failed to show up tonight, Sherlock's recovery would falter and there was a high chance that he would go back to that aloof stoic state again. Natalie checked on Sherlock every now and then and kept her fingers crossed.

This was exactly why they were told not to build any kind of personal attachment with the patients.

 _Bugger_. It was too late for that anyway.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"What do you mean you can't? What are you even saying?"

"Not now, Harry, please. I promise I will contact you first thing tomorrow but please not now."

"Wow! Wow! You, John Watson, are the most selfish being I have ever seen. And I've seen plenty of bastards in my life. How could you even say that? You-WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

"Harry, don-please don't create a scene. Jus-just...God, I'm sorry, I just can't talk to you righ-"

"Can't talk? Can't talk? Do you have any idea what I have been gone through these past few months? First...first there was this letter from that hell hole of yours, telling me that you were injured but alive, and then nothing! NOTHING! No news, no trace, no phone calls. It was like you vanished completely. I thought- I thought you were gone, Johnny. How could you? How the hell could you?"

"I tried to call you while I was in Glasgow, I tried to call but your number was no more in use and the last time I called you from the base you told me that you were changing your address. Then how the hell was I supposed to contact you? I was severely injured. This building, this is a medical facility. I was in Glasgow, just returned from there. Harry, I will tell you everything but please not tonight, not now. And I bet you have big plans for tonight, so I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

"You are a bastard, John, a complete utter bastard. This is what I get after letting you stay in my house when you had nowhere to return to on that Christmas break last year? This is wh-"

"Wait wait wait. Hang on! So, you want, what, payment? So, this is what it's all about? A payback for your _immeasurable_ kindness? Jesus, Harry. And you call me selfish? That's rich coming from you."

"Oh yeah? What do you think my job is, moron? Do you think I'm your caretaker? Your PA? First I have to open my house for you then I have to answer all those bloody enquiries about you. What do you take me-"

"Enquiries? What the fuck are you on about?"

"Mike nagged me numerous times to know your whereabouts, and there was this weird guy, suddenly came up from nowhere and almost badgered me to death to tell him about you. A complete freak, stalker. That bastard even knew my life history and threatened me-"

"Life his- Oh no! Harry, name, his- his name? You know his name? When this happened? Tell me, when?

"Ooooooh, so NOW that your interest is perked up, you are suddenly all ears, huh? Why, John, was he one of your fag boyfriend?"

"Fa-wow, isn't that hilarious coming from a fag sister? Why, I thought you approved, Harry?"

"Fuck you, John. Fuck you to hell and back. This is what you have to say to your sister after almost a year?"

"Harry...Harry...I'm-I'm sorry but I'm really in a mess right now, I can't tell you everything, but I'm not ignoring you...God, I just want to live, Harry. I just... can you tell me that man's name? Please? It's- it's important."

"Damnit, John, don't make that face, don't. You are my only family and- damnit. Okay...uh...he had a weird name, I can't really remember. It was months ago but...uh...something like Halls or Hills...I can't remember. A lanky kid with all these ridiculous cheekbones and a fast and vile mouth. Bastard. He went to Mike also and- J-John? What's wrong? Hey, what the hell? Ho-how is your injury? John?"

"Oh, God, oh Harry. God, Harry, please-uh- can you- can you give me Mike's number? D-do you have it?"

"What? Yeah, yeah sure but are you alright? You look pale."

"No..uh...no, I'm alright, just give me the number, yeah?"

"Sure, um, here it is, do you have a pe- hey, you have a phone also?! And you still didn't-"

"Not now, Harry. You can murder me later, but please, I need to do some things now."

"Hm. Note the number."

"Thanks, thanks so much. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to contact you and I promise I'll make it up to you somehow. But I have to go now, I really do."

"Yeah, yeah, go and do whatever you are dying to do but hey, safe sex, alright?"

"Huh? Oh, god. "

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John didn't come.

Sherlock saw happy faces of the family members swarmed in the hall. Saw their puerile attempts to cheer the atmosphere up. Saw how stupidly cheerful some members acted. And felt alone. He was not the only one for whom nobody came. There were people like Sherlock, scattered in the corners of the hall, waiting to be pitied upon and forced to be jovial with borrowed happiness.

Bile rose and Sherlock left the hall before anyone could make him feel how unwanted and misfit he was.

He never let himself think about such petty things. Never allowed his mind to linger upon such trivial matters, but tonight was different. Seeing those happy faces, seeing that there were people, families, friends who accepted addicts like Sherlock, freaks like Sherlock, broken something within him. The carefully built walls of illusion shattered, and he let himself accept the fact that yes, he needed someone too and no, nobody needed him.

Nobody wanted him. Nobody cared.

Not even John.

Especially, not John.

Sherlock went to the back garden and sat on stairs of the shed. The cold touched his bones and gave him a full body shiver. He didn't care. What did it matter if he froze to death? What would happen if he ceased to exist? What was he even doing here? Nothing would change. He would finish his term, go back to the 'mainstream' and find out a dealer again. It was a circle. Sherlock wasn't an addict but he needed an addiction. To forget, to forgive.

And maybe next time, once again, there would be a chance meeting with someone like John. Maybe someone like John would send him letters again, and there would be another bubble of illusion to make him feel that someone needed him too, he was important for someone too.

 _Someone like John._

A breathy laugh escaped his lips and his vision blurred slightly.

"I didn't know you still smoked."

Sherlock's entire body went rigid. He hated that voice. Hated the power that voice had over him. He didn't turn. Instead, he took another drag and exhaled the smoke lazily, buying himself a few seconds to compose his mind.

"I didn't know you were under the false impression that you knew everything about me."

"Those things can kill, you know."

"So does the war."

"Touché."

Sherlock's heart was pounding so loudly that he almost couldn't hear what John was saying. His ears felt hot. His whole body felt warm. He didn't turn. He couldn't. There was no way in hell he could possibly show his face to John right now. No matter how thick John was, a single look and John would know everything Sherlock was feeling at the moment. He never showed anyone his open face, and he never would. Not even to John.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I will always come back, you know."

Sherlock's vision blurred once again.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he knew the moment he saw him that something was off about Sherlock tonight. Or maybe it was John who was seeing things in a different light. He was late, he couldn't keep his punctuality, he even received a brief verbal bashing from Sherlock's nurse too, but he didn't regret it anymore. The meeting with Harry and then the phone call to Mike had opened his eyes, decided it for him. No more hesitation, no more doubt, no more hiding. John Watson was in this for good.

"You look...nice tonight but aren't you feeling cold?" His heart soared to see that blue scarf on Sherlock.

"Do not think this was for you."

Sherlock's reply was clipped, voice irritated. He was still turned away from him. John didn't let himself discouraged by it. He was way too giddy to let these things affect him.

"Of course not."

Silence. John tapped his feet on the wooden stairs, deciding whether to tell Sherlock or not.

 _Oh, fuck it. He would know eventually anyway._

"I met Harry today."

The instant stiffness of the neck and shoulder was the only signs that told John that Sherlock had heard him.

"I talked to Mike also, you know."

John couldn't keep his voice free from the happiness he was feeling inside. It seeped out of him and made his tone sounded like amused.

If only John knew how much that would backfire, he would have been more careful. Sherlock abruptly stood up and turned back at him at last. But seeing his face, every happy feeling evaporated from John instantly, and he braced himself.

"Oh, so that was the reason of your coming here tonight? You came to gloat? Came to rub it on my face that how pathetic I was to try to find you, try to reach anyone and everyone who might have known what happened to you? What, did you think that would shame me? I would deny my momentary lapse of reasoning? Well, sorry to disappoint you, John, but I will not deny anything and give you the satisfaction to laugh at me. Yes, I contacted that alcoholic good for nothing sister of yours who was way too _sober_ to even say her own name properly. Yes, I went to that dimwit friend of yours, who claimed to be your best friend, but never did anything to reach you. Yes, I did all those things. I went around the city like a lunatic, trying to find any trace that might lead me to you. I do not need you to tell me how pitiful I was because I am aware of that already."

Sherlock was panting and John was stunned to silence. He closed his eyes, because it was a lot to take in. He tried to quieten his chaotic mind to let Sherlock's words sink in. But apparently it was a wrong thing to do as it backfired also.

"Oh, so you can't even look at me now? Have I stooped that low for your taste? No no no, keep your eyes closed, keep them away from this hateful creature standing in front of you. The addict, the fool, the freak of the society, the dispensable member of your family whom you can cut off anytime, who will not bat an eye if you call him names, mock him, exclude him from everything. And why so? Because he is the sociopath, you see. The gangrene. Poke him, prod him, cut him off, throw him away, he will not mind. Because he is Sherlock Holmes- the freak. Sherlock Holmes who combed his stupid hair so that you would like him better; Sherlock Holmes who used to wait for a damned letter like a dog waiting for a bread; Sherlock Holmes who fucking relapsed just because he thought he lost someone. The fool, the imbecile didn't even think that the person he was pining after, might not want him back, might want to disappear from his life intentionally. After all these years, after facing all the facts, this simple fact still can't get through my stupid thick brain that nobody wants me. Nobody cares."

Sherlock was trembling. John knew he should let Sherlock vent out, but he was shaking for God's sake! How could he let him be?

"Sherlock-"

"Shut up. SHUT. UP. I don't want your pity. I don't want anything. Do you think you can tell me something which I don't know already? Do you think you can shut me up with your fake kindness and pitiful words? Do you honestly think that? How much, John? How much Mycroft has paid you? Tell me how much? I will pay you twice more, but please stop this. Stop looking at me like you care. Stop giving me false hope only to snatch it away. Stop it already. Tell me your amount and get lost. Tell me!"

"Wh-what are you talking about? Sherlock?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't look so surprised. You can drop this act now. I know everything, John. Does-does Mycroft honestly think he can fool me this easily? Fool Sherlock Holmes? Why look so confused, John? Didn't you know that my perfect brother pays people to be nice to me? Didn't you know that all those people, who treat me like a human being, are actually on Mycroft's payroll? I know very well that without my brother's money nobody would care a fig about me. I am perfectly aware of the fact that I am unwanted. So, tell me, how much it has cost Mycroft to convince you to come here? To meet me? To write that letter? To convince me that...that you care?"

John was perfectly calm by now. It was surprising, considering when Sherlock started to lash out John felt like a drowning man, but the more he heard Sherlock the calmer he felt. John realized that his mind identified the whole situation as a crisis and activated this calm-like-water mode, which he adapted before facing any crisis in the battlefield. John knew the situation was so delicate that even a wrong body movement could destroy every positive thing between them. So, he stayed just like as he was before, sitting on one of the stairs, looking directly at Sherlock, opening his face as much as he could so that Sherlock could read everything John was feeling right now.

John's heart ached. His whole body ached. All he wanted was to get up and hug Sherlock. Sooth this hurting boy somehow, make him see that he was cared for, he was precious. But he didn't think approaching Sherlock physically would be a right move. So, he kept on sitting and watched a panting, trembling Sherlock who had once again turned his back to John.

"Why, John?"

"Sherlock?"

"Why?"

Sherlock's voice cracked, John's heart broke a bit more.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Why don't you want me?"

Was Sherlock, was he crying?

 _Oh God, please no._

"No, Sherlock that's-"

"Am I not worthy of your friendship?"

 _Please, please let this be a nightmare and wake me up._

"Sherlock, no, ple-"

"Am I not worth keeping?"

 _It's me who is not worthy of you, Sherlock._

"God, no, Sherl-"

"Why didn't you want to come back?"

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

"No, jus- no."

"Are-are you here because Mycroft is forcing you?"

 _No, no, no, please God, no. I Can't take it anymore. I can't stop it, can't take it, can't even say anything meaningful. I am choking up, Jesus..._

"If you want to leave, you can. I promise I won't try to find you again."

 _Enough is enough._

"Sherlock, stop it."

 _This cannot be happening. No, this just cannot. Cannot._

"But, when you-when you said that you-you wanted to make memories with me, we-were you lying?"

"Sherlock, stop it."

"When you said that you li-"

It was too much. Too much to bear, too much to hear, to much to watch. John couldn't control himself. He got up, reached Sherlock with such swiftness he didn't know he still possessed and hugged him with his uninjured arm from behind.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up already?"

Sherlock's whole body went stiff. It seemed as if he stopped breathing altogether. John rested his head in between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Despite the cold, sweat was pooling around his neck. He didn't mean to hug Sherlock, didn't mean to actually touch him physically, but desperate times needed desperate measures, and it was beyond his capacity to express his own emotions in words right now. The only option he had left to reassure this fragile, vulnerable boy was to show him how much, just how much he meant to John. Therefore, John did what he thought would be the best. He took a risk and took Sherlock in his arm. Consequences be damned.

"Stop it, Sherlock. No more, please, no more...You have no idea, do you?"

John's voice was muffled, but he was sure Sherlock understood him anyway.

"For such a brilliant man, you are pretty thick at times, you know."

John could feel Sherlock's breathing had gone all erratic.

"You want to know why I didn't want to come back? Why I wanted to disappear from your life? You want to know it?"

He received no response from the man he was still hugging.

"That was because I wanted you so much. Because I want to so much."

"Aren't you contradicting your own statement?"

"Shut up, I am not finished yet."

For once, Sherlock listened to John and shut up.

John was beyond relief to hear Sherlock's response, but he needed to say what he wanted to say for a long time, and for that he needed a quiet Sherlock right now.

"I wanted all the things I said to you. All the things and more. I never once lied to you, Sherlock. But after my injuries, after what I had become, how could I possibly think that you would want anything to do with me? How could I stand in front of you and demand your friendship, your companionship, when I had nothing to offer to this brilliant, brilliant man? Do you have any idea, any idea how I see you? When I look at you, I see a brilliant, marvellous genius, mad, totally utterly mad man and ask myself why should you bear with me? Why someone so precious would give a care about someone like _me_? Yes, I wanted you, wanted your friendship, wanted to make memories with you but above all these, I wanted you to be happy, I wanted you to have the best things in life. Because, you, Sherlock Holmes, are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

The silence stretched on and just when John was beginning to think that he, once again, fucked everything up royally, Sherlock spoke-

"I am assuming that you have a massive confidence over your eloquence and therefore decided to torture me with this self-contradicting, confusing and overly romanticized speech. But I must inform you that poorly formed sentences and illogical decisions do not really do a good job in order to convince someone with a functioning brain."

The thrumming tension left John immediately, and his shoulder sagged in relief. Sherlock's words had its usual cutting edge, but his voice was unusually soft and there was something else which John dared to interpret as fondness. He wasn't sure how to respond to that and just when he was about to remove his hand from Sherlock's torso, a warm pressure fell over his hand. With a jolt John realized that Sherlock had put his own hand over's John's. John tightened his slack grip again and pressed his face more into Sherlock's back.

"Idiot."

Although John's face lit up with a smile, his eyes teared up not so unexpectedly.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock."

"Hmm. You too."

They stood just like that for a long time, ignoring the fact that both of them might get pneumonia, or an awful lot of people were just a few yards away from them, or more importantly, Sherlock had a very nosy and a very curious nurse at his disposal. They ignored everything because what mattered to them most in the world was with them at the moment. Everything else was just white noise.

"So...you combed your hair for me, huh?"

"Shut up."

* * *

~0~0~0~


	7. Chapter 7

**_Hi my lovelies,_**

 ** _Here is the second part of the "New Beginning' chapter. Nothing much is happening here. Just some sappy, fluffy moments, which I think these two needs more than anything._** ** _Also note that,_** ** _I have messed up the POVs in the chapter. Generally, I present the scenes from a certain character's POV. But here, some of the scenes are more like from the narrator's POV. Though I don't think that will pose a problem with the reading, but if it does, please excuse the mistake. :(_**

 ** _Also, I'm gonna be super busy for the next 25 days. I'm going for an adventure! So, this will be my last update till then. Please, stay with the boys, they need your support to get over with their problems._**

 **[][][][][]**

 ** _Hugs and cookies for-_** **Sandylee007** , **SilentRaven97, omgeology, Suealpacamama, Smita, Amista, and my darling Kiddo, Nauss**. **And all those lovely people who Favourited/Followed this story or me. You guys are AWESOME!**

 **Smita (guest)- Thank you, darling, for that amazingly positive review! John needed to know Sherlock's side of the story, his problems, insecurities. Hence, all those heartbreaking outbursts. I am so glad that you liked them even if they were pretty angsty. *hugs***

 **Amista (guest)- Thank you, sweetheart! *hugs***

 **Neither Brit-picked, nor Beta'd.**

 **Hope you enjoy the read! Leave a review if you have a minute to spare. :D**

 **xxx**

 **Abbey**

* * *

 **New Beginning Pt-II**

 ** _"_** ** _Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;  
When little fears grow great, great love grows there."_**

 ** _-'Hamlet' by Shakespeare_**

 ** _"_** ** _Not really sure how to feel about it_**

 ** _Something in the way you move_**

 ** _Makes me feel like I can't live without you_**

 ** _It takes me all the way_**

 ** _I want you to stay."_**

 ** _\- 'Stay' by Rihanna feat. Mikky Ekko_**

* * *

 _"_ _So...you combed your hair for me, huh?"_

 _"_ _Shut up."_

Every pore of Sherlock's skin was burning. Just from the touch. Just from that slight brush of skin on skin. It was not the burning from chemicals, or the disgusting sensation which he felt every time someone other than Mummy or Mrs. Hudson tried to touch him. No, it was nothing like that. This burning made him want to crave it more. Want to feel it more. Want to touch it more. Sherlock never felt anything like this before, ever. He had no idea that a mere touch could weaken him, hypnotize him like this. He thought he was above this. His body was just a transport, above all these basic physical trivialities. Then why did he feel as if his mind was going numb? Why his body wanted to lean on this touch? Why now? Was it just a physical reaction or was it...John?

Was it because he was touching John?

To confirm Sherlock tried to imagine someone else touching him like this. Someone like...like Natalie or Wiggins. But apparently, it was a very wrong thing to do, because a shudder went through Sherlock's body as soon as he imagined the scenario, and he vehemently tried to banish the cursed scene off his mind. _Urgh..._

If John's touch was hypnotizing then the mere thought of someone else touching him was nauseating. And while Sherlock was still busy getting rid of the sickening feeling, and shaking his hands as if something sticky and disgusting was still attached to it, he came to this conclusion that yes, it was John who elicited this intense or...um... _pleasant_ physical reaction from him.

But something was not right. Sherlock had successfully cleared his doubts and he couldn't deny that the result had pleased him, but something felt off, he felt cold. With a start, he realized that John wasn't holding him anymore. He must have shaken John off of himself while he thought he was banishing those horrible mental images. He spun on his heels; one look at John's guilt stricken face and Sherlock knew that he had some convincing to do.

"Um...you are misinterpreting the situation."

Sherlock watched John paled more.

"Oh. Oh, no..I'm-I'm sorry. I-I shouldn't have..uh..hugged you. I'm s-sorry."

"You are definitely misinterpreting. I was analyzing some data and had to conduct a brief experiment. The result was rather nasty that forced me to react the way I did. You played no role in it, at least not directly. And as for your concern about hugging me, all I can say is that I...um..well, I did not dislike it."

Though he did not seem to be fully convinced but John, to Sherlock's utter relief, relaxed a bit.

"Oh, okay. That's good then. I mean it's good that I didn't cause any trouble for you, yeah?"

"Yes, it is."

They stood there with a growing awkwardness between them. Sherlock was watching John as a hawk and John was looking everywhere but Sherlock.

 _He still hasn't realized that he is without his cane_. Sherlock mused.

 _This has become way too awkward. Should I comment on the weather now? Oh, he must be freezing by now. I should ask him to..._ John promptly stopped his own mind-babbling and asked Sherlock, "Hey, shouldn't we go inside? You must be freezing."

"I am perfectly fine here, John. I'd rather stay here with you than go back to that circus."

"Oh, okay, um, alright. But you should put something warm on you."

"I assure you that I feel no discomfort in my current attire."

"Then at least sit under the shade. Come on."

They took their previous places on the wooden stairs of the shade with John a step higher than Sherlock. Silence enveloped them again but this time it was somewhat companionable.

Sherlock wanted to smoke again, but that would require him to go inside, so he pushed aside his nicotine craving for now, and tried to concentrate on the soft tapping sound John's shoes were making currently.

At last John spoke up.

"You swore today."

"I did not!"

"Yeah, you did. It was kinda cute, you know, hearing you swearing for the first time."

"...Oh, so it was amusing to you? Well, I am glad that I was able to entertain you."

 _Uh-oh._ "What? No...no, no, not like that, not like that kind of cute, no. In fact not at all cute. There was nothing cute about it, about you. Er...no...uh..it's not like I don't find you cute; I think you are irresistibly cute but not like that, you know? Ha ha, no..um..I should shut up now, yeah, okay."

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilence. John sat there, looking like a hedgehog in shock and wondering what on earth was wrong with him.

Sherlock turned his head towards John but did not look at him.

"You find me irresistible?"

"No, no, absolutely not, not in the lea- what? "

Now Sherlock turned fully, looking straight at John.

"So, it was a lie then?"

"What? Noooo, no-just-Jesus, Sherlock. I'm a moron. Yes, you are irresistible, you are cute and I am a dickhead."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Why? For finding me _cute_ and charming?"

John's shoulder slumped further.

"Now you are just having me on, aren't you?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Of course, I am."

"Brat."

And with that single word the air around them became charged with heavy emotions. Memories rushed in, flooding them with moments of shared bliss, banter, disagreement, promises, admiration...affections.

They held each other's gaze, trying to find the echoes of the emotions, they both were feeling, into each other's eyes. Trying to delve into the depth of each other's mind, and to assure and be assured that deep down they were still the same; the ways were not sealed shut yet.

"My own brat."

John wasn't even sure whether he uttered those words in his mind or aloud. It wasn't a statement, wasn't a confirmation. It was a plea. _Can I still call you mine? Do I still have the right? Did those moments really happen? Are you still mine?_

"...Yes."

Sherlock responded without averting his eyes. _Yes, you can still call me that. Yes, I have longed to hear those words from you. Yes, I am ready to let my control go. Yes, those moments really happened. Yes, I am still yours._

John never knew being possessive also meant surrendering one's self completely. Sherlock never knew that accepting the fact that someone else held the power of breaking or making him could feel so liberating. They never knew letting go could feel like coming home.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock scowled.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"A _ringing_ sound is coming from your pocket."

"Hmmmm."

"John!"

"Wh-what?"

"You have a phone?"

"What? Oh, shit. Wait."

"Who is it? Who gave you the phone? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Just a sec."

"Who is calling you at this late of the night?"

"Oh, it's nothing, just Mycroft. There, I have put it on silent mode. So, no ringing anymore."

"He calls you at night?"

"Huh? Oh, no, he's probably making sure that we haven't killed each other yet."

"Why is my brother calling you at this hour when he clearly knows that you are with me?"

"Umm...he's worried, probably?"

"Is it a common occurrence?"

"Is what a common occurrence?"

"His calling you?"

"Yeah, it quite common. Most of the time he contacts me through phone calls. And it's better to talk to him over the phone than to hear his nattering face to face."

"He visits you? And he calls you personally every time?"

"Uh...Sherlock, what's going on? Why are you looking so angry?"

"Answer my questions."

"He-uh-he doesn't visit me that often but yes, he calls me from his personal number...but I don-"

"What is the nature of your relationship with Mycroft?"

"What? Relationship? What the hell are you on about? What relationship?"

"Do not try to dodge the question. Answer me."

"What the fuck, Sherlock? Mycroft helped me to get in touch with you and I may not admit it to him but I am thankful for whatever he did to bring me to you. And honestly, for a long time he was the only-"

"Oh, so now I have to listen to the praises you sing about my brother? Perfect Mycroft and his perfect little schemes. Mighty Mycroft invades the foreign lands and saves the damsel in distress while his failure of a brother grovels in the dirt in need of a fix. Oh, how wonderful. Why, John don't you think it is a perfect plot? The fallen hero and the hero. While the one fights tooth and nail to save his own skin, the other saves the world with just a snap of his fingers. Brilliant. I never stood a chance, did I, John? You are never going to-"

"Sherlock! Do not utter a single word anymore. Do not finish that line, you hear me? Do not. Finish. That. Line! Jesus, Sherlock! What is going on? What-why are you acting like this? What happened so suddenly? Why?"

"Because it will never last! Don't you see, John? He will take you away from me. He will take you away and hide you and never let me see you again. He will take you away, he will."

"Oh, Sherlock...Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me..." John cupped the left side of Sherlock's face, tangling the fingertips into the inky curls, forcing him to look at John when he tried to pull away, "no no, look at me. Look at me. You know me, right? You know your John, _Your_ John. I am never going to leave you. Ever. I am going to stay with you as long as you want me to. I am in this for good. No, no no, stop talking for a moment and let me finish, yeah? Yeah? I am not going to leave you. Mycroft's not going to take me away. He never can, never will. Sherlock he is the one who brought me here. No no, I am not taking your brother's side but we have to face the truth, right? Sherlock, Mycroft wanted us to meet and he went to a great length to make that happen. Then why would he undo all of his efforts? He is not going to take me away, no one can. I will always be with you."

"But-but he took Readbeard away. He took him away from me and he never came back. He will do the same with you. John, he will, he will." Sherlock was trembling, his voice choked up while speaking.

"Shh, shh, shh, no, he won't, he can't. Trust me, I won't let him. You trust me don't you? Don't you? I will not let anyone, anyone take me away from you. I promise."

"You will break you promise again."

"No, I won't."

"You will leave me."

"No, I won't"

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can."

"Why?"

"Because...because you are you. Because you are mine. Because I am yours."

"..."

John wrapped his good arm around Sherlock and he, in return, pressed his face against John's right shoulder and hugged him back.

"Shh...shhh...it's okay, it's alright, baby...it's alright. I am here, I will always be here."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I-I don't want y-you to live in that nursing home anymore. You are t-too near to Mycroft."

"Okay, alright, I will move out. I will leave the facility as soon as I can arrange something alternative, okay? Don't worry about it. Alright?"

"John?"

"Yes? Tell me what is it?"

"I want to go home." Sherlock mumbled into the crook of John's neck.

"...You will. Soon, you will be home, Sherlock. I will take you home. You will be home in no time."

"Mycroft is stupid."

"That's right. He is a stupid git."

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You called me baby. Why?"

"Erm...Yes, I did. You've got a problem with that?"

"No."

"Good."

"Why are you still hugging me? The distress period is over. I am fine now." Though he himself made no effort to move from where he was now, so John hugged him more tightly.

"I am hugging you because I can. So, shut up and let me cuddle you more."

"Idiot."

"Brat."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Stay."

"I will."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Mycroft did not want to stop by Sherlock's rehab tonight while returning from a very politically planned social gathering. He was sure his brother would never welcome his presence especially not on an occasion like this, and honestly he had no desire to barge in, too. He was too tired to listen to his brother's whining and complaining. But John, for some reasons unknown to even Mycroft, was not receiving his calls and that was enough to set the alarms on for him. Thus, Mycroft found himself entering the rehab.

Once inside he was told that his brother and Dr. Watson were in the back yard at the moment. The staff offered to call them in for him but he refused. Throwing himself in front of Sherlock's verbal firing was not really something he had been planning to do tonight. So instead, he went for them himself.

"Pssst...Mr. Holmes? Pssst?"

Mycroft Holmes, in his entire life, was never on the receiving end of a 'psst pssst-ing' . His perpetual grimace deepened along with his frown. He turned to find out who was capable of such atrocity, and found Sherlock's nurse standing just a few steps away, partially hidden behind a bush.

"Miss Lewis?"

"Mr. Holmes, come here, quick quick."

"Excuse me?"

"Will excuse you later, just move from there this instant. They're gonna see you. Come here, come on."

"Who's going to-" Mycroft turned to the direction Natalie was asking him not to go, and he thought he saw John.

"God, you brothers..."

And with that Mycroft was being dragged (heavens!) by his coat sleeve.

"Ms. Lewis! Do not act above your station. Unhand me right now."

But by then Natalie had secured their position, well hidden from John and Sherlock. She let go of Mycroft's coat clad elbow.

"Sorry 'bout that but that was completely necessary, you know. You were about to ruin the moment."

"Pardon?"

"You shouldn't go there right now. Give them some more time, will you?"

"And pray tell what is _so_ important they are doing that they cannot be interrupted and I have to be manhandled to secure their privacy?"

"I said sorry already. Don't be such a baby. And they are just hugging and stuff."

It took Mycroft a moment too long to response. It was not often (in fact not ever except while visiting Mrs. Hudson) that he was addressed in such a manner. He was stunned to say the least but Mycroft Holmes would not be snubbed by being called a _baby_. He squared his shoulder, made his face as indifferent as the situation allowed him (which was not much, regretfully), arched an eyebrow and asked-

"And 'stuff'?"

"Yeah, you know...the things that happen after lovers' tiff."

Now this was alarmingly interesting.

"They had an argument?"

"Guess so. I heard Sherlock yelling and babbling."

"I demand to know the full account."

"Jesus! Have you two being brought up by the Malfoys? Both of you guys are such drama queens."

 _Malfoys? Who on earth those people are? This needs to be investigated. However, "_ I assure you, Ms. Lewis, that there is no doubt behind our parentage, and whether we were ever subjected to any foster care, I do not think, you should concern yourself about the matter. So, is that all you have to say? I am afraid I cannot delay my visit anymore. But...ah...thank you for your effort to secure my brother's privacy."

With that Mycroft turned from Natalie and left the place without paying any heed to any protestation or pssst- psssting that followed his departure.

 _Why do I have to deal with all the oddities that Sherlock has a knack to attract?! And Sherlock is the drama queen, not me._

Mycroft had no doubt that this New Year would also prove to be as eventful as ever.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

It was John who spotted Mycroft first and thought _shit_.

The moment John's stance went from relaxed to alert, Sherlock knew.

As soon as Mycroft met his brother's eyes he braced himself mentally.

"What are you doing here?" Spat Sherlock.

And of course, Mycroft was not going to let this opportunity to rile his brother up go waste. Hence, all he said was, "Hello, John."

Poor John, oblivious of the disaster he was about to bring upon himself, responded with a nod, an uncertain half-smile, and a "Hey."

Very predictably, John met with a very Sherlokian ' _you traitor'_ glare.

"You haven't answered me, Mycroft. Why are you here?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes before answering, "I came here to wish my brother New Year, of course."

John could see Sherlock had curled his fingers into fists and his knuckles were white. He had an ominous feeling about this. But before he could think of doing something to cut the tension, Sherlock responded with clenched teeth.

"You are unwanted here. Leave."

"Ah. But that wasn't my sole purpose of coming here, brother. I came here also to make sure John was alright."

John frowned. Sherlock fumed and placed himself in front of John, hiding him almost entirely from Mycroft's view. John took a step to his left to make himself visible but to his annoyance Sherlock took a step in the same direction and tried to hide John again.

"Sherlock what are y-" John tried to cut in.

"Very mature, Sherlock." Smugness was oozing out of Mycroft.

"Why, brother, are you jealous?" Sherlock's knuckles were still white.

"Jealous? Of what exactly?" Mycroft gave a serene smile.

"Mycroft, will you ple-" John tried again but in vain.

"Because I have John." Sherlock's voice was defiant and...and... _petulant_?!

"W-what?" The statement was not something out of the blue, but John was taken aback nonetheless.

Mycroft huffed in exasperation which John suspected was a fake gesture. That smug bastard was enjoying this too much.

"It is not a competition, brother. Do not try to make it one."

"Yes, true. It is not a competition, Mycroft, because you do not even qualify for it. I demand his release at once." Sherlock snarled.

"What the fuck is going on?" John couldn't believe these two! He just couldn't.

"Dear God, Sherlock! John is not my prisoner."This time, the elder Holmes exasperation seemed quite genuine.

"Isn't he? But all the surveillance, the waiting minions, your sudden urge to secure John's safety when he is with me tells me another story though. Did you honestly think you could fool me with the same trick every time? This time you won't succeed. This time I will not let go what is mine." The words were dipped in vitriol.

Mycroft's face lost its smugness and a cold mask took its place.

"I did what was to be done at that time. Do not blame me for your inability to accept the reality."

"He was my first friend!"

"And I did everything I could to save him."

"Yet you could not."

"To let a singular accident dictate the rest of your life's experiences is not only foolish but disappointing."

"Excuse me, guys, not that I am complaining because trust me, seeing you two morons bickering to your hearts' fullest is highly entertaining, but you see the thing is that, if I have the slightest idea what all these fuck is about, I will be able to enjoy your sodding show more. So, can anyone care to tell me what the fucking fuck is going on?" John's pitch was rose considerably and he all but screamed while ending his speech.

In response, he met with two pair of identical blinking. And then the bickering resumed like John had never spoken.

"You are disappointing, Mycroft, not me."

"How more childish can you be, Sherlock?!"

"Release John."

"He is free to go whenever he wants."

"Good, then he will move out tomorrow."

"Nice plan brother, but have you decided yet where he would go after that? He still needs medical attention and I doubt his meagre pension will allow him to stay in London once he starts to pay for his treatment out of his own pocket."

"Hey hey hey, I am still here, you know? And what exactly do you mean by my-"

"Of course I have planned for everything. We will share a flat. That way he will be able to balance his expenditure."

"What? A flat? Sher-, what the hell? Hey, you-you listen to me-"

" _We_?"

"Yes, brother, _we_ because you are getting me out of this place as well."

"That is not possible."

"You know very well that I am capable of getting out of here whenever I intend to, with or without your help. If you want me to make things difficult for you then it will be my pleasure to oblige you, brother dear."

"But you are required to complete your therapy."

"If you seriously think that some meaningless therapy sessions will be better for me than to share a flat with John, then you are losing your logical competence faster than I presumed, Mycroft."

"Clearing the paper-work will take some time."

"That's your problem, not mine."

"Alright then-"

"You, you fucking stuck-up incorrigible pricks. You are discussing about my life choices, deciding my future for me without even sparing a glance at me! While I stand here like-like some fucking stray dog waiting to be danced around by the great Holmes brothers! Who the hell you think you are, you fucking idiots? And you," John stomped towards Sherlock, "you spoiled rotten twat, what makes you think that you can decide my future for me without even consulting? Huh? I like you, but that doesn't mean, Sherlock, that you get to choose everything for me, got that? Yeah? Right. And you," Now it was Mycroft's turn, "you sodding meddling bastard, who gave you the right to talk about my life as if I poured my heart out crying over your shoulder? Don't go pretending that you know what I can or can't do just because you have my career file. I can forgive Sherlock for trying to take choices from me, but the same doesn't go for you. You hear me? Good. Now, keep that brotherly love on. I am done with you two for the night. No, no, Sherlock, not another word, not tonight."

With that John turned and stomped his way back to the main building.

The rage of John Watson. Pure, dazzling and toe curlingly sexy. Both of the Holmes brother stood in stunned silence, blinking and looking at the empty spot where John stood moments ago, threatening the hell out of them.

"Well, that was... _interesting_." The elder Holmes noted, tapping his umbrella.

"How can he be so angry? He is so small, almost tiny."

"How many times do I have to remind you, brother, that physical size doesn't correlate with human emotions?!"

"Hmm. Have you noticed?"

"Of course. Should I deliver it to him later?"

"You may. Though he will not need that cane anymore.

"Sherlock...are you sure about sharing a flat with John? He doesn't seem very _enthusiastic_ about it, and your history with other people is not very encouraging as well."

"I am not the only one who is trying to find a home, Mycroft. He will come around. And he is not other people, he is John."

"Dear God. How very poetic of you, brother, and pathetically maudlin. However, though I do not share your point of view, but I will withhold my opinion and hope for the best."

"You are not fooling anyone, Mycroft."

"Would not dream about it. So do you have any particular place in mind or do you need any assistance?"

"I have."

"Which is?"

"221B Baker Street. Tell Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will be renting it."

~0~0~0~


	8. Chapter 8 Baker Street Boys

**Hey, guys!**

 **Yeah, I'm still alive. Did you miss me? XD Well, my trip was great but hectic, and now I'm bulldozed with the workload. (Psst, these are my excuses for delaying the update! Take a hint, will you?)**

 **I am truly sorry for not replying to your reviews and messages. I'm pretty sure my days are consisted only of 10 hours. So, please, don't stop reviewing, because, when after a long, hard day my mailbox informs me that I've got a review, it's one of the best feelings in the world. Every review matters. so, please leave your thoughts after reading this. You can tell me even if you don't like it, just be gentle with your words. But please review.**

 **Thank you so much for all of you who followed/favourited this series/fic. Chocolate cookies and Koala hugs for you! :D**

 **Okay, so...this chapter contains silliness, fluff and the usual.**

 **I hope you enjoy the read!**

* * *

 ** _What if I kissed you now_**

 ** _And turned it all around_**

 ** _What if I kissed you now_**

 ** _And starts fell to the ground_**

 ** _Would I be losing you if I do, or would you want me too?_**

 ** _What if I kissed you now_**

 ** _What if I do?_**

 _-_ _ **"What if I kissed you now"**_ _by_ _ **Darin.**_

* * *

If Mycroft were a mansion he would have definitely looked like the one John was currently looking at. What made John kick Sherlock out of his newly rented bedsit, he didn't know, but it was coming back to bite him in the arse. John was here to patch things up with Sherlock...again.

He wanted Sherlock in his life more than anything else, he wanted to be a part of Sherlock's life too, but every time things began to look up, John somehow managed to fuck everything up. He didn't blame Sherlock for anything, no, never. He appreciated and cherished Sherlock and his sharp, rude comments and brutal honesty, but how could he blame himself for reacting when all he did was to protect his self respect? That was the only intact thing John still had now. When Sherlock came to his bedsit and gave reasons for why John should not be there, it made John feel like an incompetent invalid and it had hurt so badly. Maybe that was because all the things Sherlock said were true, maybe because it was Sherlock who was saying those things, but John couldn't bear it anymore and lost his temper. He lashed out, ending up saying some vicious things which made him feel like hanging himself when he was calmer.

However, he was here now to reconcile things. Tend the wounds. But the mere sight of this intimidating building sucked up half of his confidence. John realized that he was fidgeting for long enough to look suspicious to whoever sat behind that other kidnap car which was currently parked on the opposite side of the road. John squared his shoulder and knocked at last.

Out of all people he expected to see John wasn't prepared for a _butler_. Although whom or what he expected to see was not clear even to himself. Mycroft in a salsa costume, maybe? But definitely not a butler.

"Yes?"

"Umm...Sherlock?" _Really, John?_ He wanted to smack himself but before he could rephrase his question the man in front of him replied-

"No, that would be the Young Master. I am the butler. Do you have an appointment, Sir?"

 _Young Master? The hell! What is it, some kind of real-life Richie Rich movie or something?_ "Uh...I'm John."

John might be wrong, but he thought a flicker of recognition went through The Butler's face. Yes, 'The Butler', with capital letters.

"Please come in."

"Alright." And entered one John Watson into the Lair of The Mycroft Holmes, which also contained The Young Master and The Butler. Phew!

John suddenly felt the absolutely awful need to make conversation while following The Butler. So, he said, "Sherlock knows me."

"I am sure he does, Sir."

"Mycroft knows me too." _Uh, John, your point being?_

"I am sure he does, Sir."

John huffed mentally. Well, served him right for making inane conversation. John tried to sneak glances at The Butler. _Is this man even human? He is not even blinking, is he? Maybe he is part alien? Maybe Fox Mulder was right all along! Shit._

John also noted the complete lack of any personal photographs on the walls. The walls were not bare, of course. There were a number of those disgustingly pricey abstract paintings which John couldn't tell if they were hanging upside down or not, but not a single family or personal photograph could be seen among them.

"Please wait here. I will let the young master know of your arrival."

With that The Butler looked at John with his cold dead eyes that chilled John's bones, gave a curt nod, turned on his heels and vaporized. ... ... ... Umm, well, not really. But John thought it was very fitting considering the atmosphere and surrounding.

After looking around for few seconds, John saw a less intimidating looking sofa, settled himself on it and began to space out.

Sharing a flat with a friend or some stranger was one thing, but sharing it with someone, whose mere presence made John's heart beat faster and slower at the same time, was something that was entirely on a different league. John was having morning wood each bloody day since they shared the hug that night, for fuck's sake! John's sex drive totally crashed after his accident, but somehow that single hug from Sherlock had tickled his hibernating libido and now it was hungry all the time. How was he supposed to live a celibate, in his condition, with a man who was the object of his wet dreams? His wanking hand was not even working the way it should, for double fuck's sake! What if he couldn't control himself and pounce on Sherlock? Oh, God, oh no, he couldn't, He wouldn't...

"Sir?"

"No, I won't!"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Err...um..."

This time John could swear he saw The Butler suppress the urge to roll his eyes and said, "This way, please."

"Yeah, sure."

They stopped in front of a room which, John hoped, held one very miraculously cheerful Sherlock... What? Couldn't blame a man for hoping.

The Butler knocked lightly and after a pause opened and held the door for John to enter. John entered and something screeched.

"What the-"

John had no idea an innocent and non-violent looking instrument like the violin could produce such an unearthly, eardrum shattering sound. But apparently it could when it was played? Tormented? Beaten? by one Young Master.

"What ar-"

 _Screeeeeech._

"Owww, Sherlock?!"

 _Screeeeeeeeeeech._

"The fuck..."

 _Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech._

"SHERLOCK!"

Finally, the screeching stopped and the artist/tormentor turned to face John. Wait...was Sherlock...was he pouting? No, that couldn't be. John shook his head to clear it.

"Hi."

Blank stare.

"Umm...nice house."

Indifferent stare.

"I met...met you butler. He looks like, like a cosplayer, heh."

Scorching burning glare.

"...or not. Um."

John shut up finally and stood there looking sheepish. He felt like his nine year old self again when he got a three days' detention for stuffing a classmate's nostrils with nuts. That boy had a cold and John wanted to see how far those nuts could fly when he sneezed.

"I am sorry for saying some of the things I said to you the other day."

Pause. Glare. Frown. Narrowed eyes. And then-

The regal Young Master spoke at last startling John. "Some of them? Please do specify which ones. 'Obnoxious', 'bossy', 'arrogant twit' or..uh...what was that again..ah, 'snobbish prick'? That's a rather long list, don't you think? Take your pick because I do not like vague apologies."

John could feel the beginning of his temper. Although he was really sorry for calling Sherlock all those things, he was _not_ sorry for reacting. And why this git could not accept a bloody plain apology? Must he be difficult and sarcastic all the time? But John was here to patch things up, not to ruin his chances altogether, so he inhaled deeply and tried to remind himself whom he was dealing with.

"I am sorry for all the sodding things I said to you. I did not mean them, well, except for arrogant prick because you are one and I honestly think that...um..no..not..um...anyway, I should not have called you names, but I am not apologising for my reaction. The way I reacted, yes, but not for why I reacted."

There was a pause and just when Sherlock opened his mouth to retort back, there was a knock. John's head instinctively snapped towards the door then again back at Sherlock, and seeing the face in front of him he thanked his luck for not having been subjected to _that_ scowl, yet.

"What?" Sherlock barked.

The door opened, revealing The Butler.

"Which part of 'Do not interrupt' did not get through your almost non-existent brain?"

"I apologise for this intrusion, Sir, but I was specifically ordered to let you know that Mr. Holmes _demands_ your presence in his office at the earliest."

"'Demands' my presence now, does he? Well, tell him to stop his sugar intake as he is clearly high if he thinks he is eligible for 'demanding' things from me. Now, remove yourself from my room at once."

"Of course, Sir."

"And Nestor?"

"Sir?"

"You are going senile if you think you are allowed to disrupt me with my brother's inane messages. Acid bath is recommended as a cure."

"Certainly, Sir. Would you have your tea now?"

"Mmm, no, not now."

"Very well, Sir."

 _Acid what? What?_ _Did he just-?_

"Now, where were we?...ah, ye-"

"Nestor?" John was still reeling.

Sherlock seemed puzzled for half a second, "What-Oh, yes, my brother's butler. Well, not really, though."

"Not really how?"

"He was actually my Fa- are you trying to distract me from the course at hand? Of course you are. But you hold yourself in high regard if you think you could succeed. Why are you here?"

"No, I didn't mean to. I just, well..."

"Why are you here?"

 _The time has come, John, buck up_. Swallowing one's pride did not go well with eye contact, hence John lowered his eyes.

"I... would like to share a flat with you if the offer still stands."

Without skipping a beat Sherlock's voice piped, "Shall we go then?"

John's head snapped towards Sherlock who had a Cheshire grin plastered on his face, and already tucking that poor violated violin in the box.

"What?"

Sherlock look up with a frown, "What what? No time to waste John. We have a flat to rent. Come on, chop chop."

"H-hold on. Aren't you _angry_ with me anymore?"

"Why on earth would I be angry with you?"

"But-but you were just giving evil eye just a moment ago, and battering that poor violin and yelling at your but- wait a damn minute! You manipulated me, didn't you, you bastard?"

"Absolutely not. I just chose not to react the way I was supposed to. There is a difference."

John should not find this haughty, irritating, incorrigible git so endearing. He should not.

"Oh, God. Fuck. Here I was going nuts about how have I hurt you and you just stood there with all those printed magnifying glasses and-and that..that stringy thing- that violin and those cheekbones and that fake crankiness...Jesus fucking fuck!"

"Your vocabulary appals me, John. And these pajamas are perfectly fine."

"Christ, kill me."

"I would, but the lack of motive would ma-"

"Oh, wow, look at the time! We have a flat to see, remember? Chop chop." There was no way in hell John would let Sherlock rant about how it would not be logical for him to kill John. Not now, and if he had any say in this, not ever.

John's effort to shut him up couldn't fool Sherlock, of course, but he just narrowed his eyes in reply and picked up his winter coat.

"Aren't you going to change? You are wearing pajamas."

"Which is a perfectly fine attire to look at rooms. Now, come on."

With that, Sherlock dashed through the door leaving John to bump at it.

"Ow."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John never ever ever had seen someone stop a cab like that. It was not like he had seen anyone do the things Sherlock did, but _that_ was completely mental. The barmy git just jumped in front of a cab, held up his hand and yelled "taxi" and within seconds they were sitting in the car. Sherlock later told John that he never had any problem finding a cab. _That's because the drivers are too shocked to react instantly_ , John grumbled under his breath.

By the time the car slowed down and finally stopped in front of a building with a bottle green door that said 221B, John's head was buzzing with information; such as, that gentleman with brown shirt was a banker and was cheating on his partner, or that old lady with that garishly red hat was looking for a shag, or that young girl was pregnant and thinking about an abortion, or that vegetable vendor had a thing for ballet and was currently trying to master it (the image of that gruffy portly man with that huge belly wearing a pink tutu and trying to do some ballet moves came unbidden into John's mind and he shuddered).

A single look at the building and John knew he was going to like it. It was nothing like he had imagined and everything he had wanted. Knowing about Sherlock's up-bringing John had feared that he would choose something overtly posh and way out of John's financial reach. In fact it was one of the reasons John was reluctant to share a flat with Sherlock. He doubted he could afford anything Sherlock would choose. He didn't expect this and it pleased him. There was even a little café just under the residential quarters. It was really nice.

Sherlock gave John a knowing quiet smile when their eyes met and then knocked.

"Oh, Sherlock!" A petite woman opened the door after a moment and engulfed Sherlock in a hug. She was a small old lady with brown hair, a warm welcoming smile and motherly air. After releasing Sherlock, she turned to John and beamed at him. John liked her instantly.

"You must be John!"

Although John didn't know why she was _squealing_.

"Er...yes, I'm John." He extended his hand only to be squeezed in a hug.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I've heard so much about you, dear. Oh, Sherlock, I am so happy for you."

"And yet you keep us standing in the cold."

"Oh please, as if you need any invitation." Then she turned to John and said in a mock whisper, "He is showing you off" and winked. Winked!

John tried to come up with something witty and ended up saying, "Erm..."

"Oh dear."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

221B Baker Street was perfect.

It was cozy, simple and comfortable. It was something which John could get used to calling 'home'. The flat was stuffed with unwrapped boxes and paper stacks and whatnots. The previous occupants were yet to move their things, John noted.

He finished his inspection of the kitchen. The table was filled with all kinds of scientific equipments, some were still unwrapped. Maybe the previous occupants were Sherlock's acquaintances and he got to know about this flat from them, but then Mrs. Hudson seemed to know Sherlock really well... John's musings came to a halt when he bumped with a magnifying glass clad chest.

"Hmmph."

"What do you think?" Sherlock looked so energetic and hopeful but that tad bit of anxiety underneath didn't escape John. He knew this was important for Sherlock and he wanted to reassure him that he felt the same, but he looked so open, so beautiful at the moment that John had to take a moment before answering.

"Very good, very nice. It's really nice, yeah. I like it here already", he gave Sherlock one of his most open and warm smile, " Once this mess is cleared it will be perfect."

Sherlock scowled in return.

"These are _my_ things. And I'll have you know that many of these things have helped me to achieve, correct and improvise many scientific theories. They are invaluable; not that I expect you to understand." Sherlock sniffed haughtily.

"Oh...ohh..um...now that...I think about it these," John looked around the room, "these will definitely make the room look cozier and..um..and-"

"Oh John, don't even bother. Here, look, I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring this chair from 221C especially for you. It's tatty and oversized; it even has this stupid Union Jack cushion- Queen and Country- very fitting, don't you think? You will like it."

Tatty, oversized? Fitting? John looked at his own clothes and worried his lower lip. Wait! "Did you actually make Mrs Hudson bringing it down here by herself?"

Sherlock shot him a withering glare, "Of course not, you daft. Mycroft's minion did it for her. Speaking of which...they will be here anytime now with your things."

"My things? What my things? How the hell they- oh God, Mycroft. What the fuck?! Doesn't the word 'privacy' mean anything to you two? But-but only me and my landlord have the keys. Surely Mycroft's men won't break and enter, will they?"

"Mycroft's name opens doors, John. Literally."

John didn't even want to think anymore.

"Oh, where did Mrs. Hudson put Billy, now?"

"Who?"

Before John could receive an answer Mrs. Hudson - as if right on cue – entered the scene.

"Yoohoo, boys, want a cuppa? Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made in the kitchen. Maybe you should make that upstairs bedroom your lab. Don't you think, John?"

"But I thought that was going to be my bedroom." John looked at Sherlock and then again at Mrs. Hudson uncertainly.

"But you don't actually need that extra bedroom, do you?"

"Of course, I'll be needing it." John was really really really at his wits' end now.

"Oh please, dear, I am maybe old but I am not _that_ old to assume that you still have separate bedrooms. You do not have to worry about being modest in front of me. There are all sorts here; in fact Mrs. Turner's got married ones." Another wink and then, "want a cuppa?"

Sherlock grabbed her, steered (more likely pushed) her towards the door and closed it once she was outside.

"Well, that's going to be our landlady."

"Yeah, nice. Who's she again?"

"Mrs. Hudson used to be our nanny and before that she was an exotic dancer."

John gawked. Suddenly he had a vivid image of a 60 year old Mrs. Hudson as an exotic dancer, and decided to never ever ever follow that thought, ever again. And if Sherlock's pursed lips and frown were anything to go by, he was having the same trouble as John.

"Well, let's then-"

"Yeah, yeah, let's just don't talk about it again...ever. yeah." John interjected before Sherlock could finish.

"But I was going to say we should start unpacking, John."

"Oh. Yeah, right, sure, let's."

"You were thinking about something else. What were you think- oh. Seriously John? Don't you have anything better than to fantasise about Mrs. Hudson's exotic dance?"

"I am not!" John barely managed not to shriek. "Can-can we just stop talking about it and start organizing the rooms, please?"

"But if you are eager then maybe you should ask her. I am sure she still has some of her old photos somewh-"

"Shut it, Sherlock."

"I was just trying to help."

"Sure you were."

"Idiot."

"Prat."

"Halfwit."

"Sod."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

And thus they settled into 221B Baker Street and lived adventurously ever after...

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Or not.

Because John was sexually frustrated.

And Sherlock liked to lounge around in the morning wearing only a bedsheet.

And John's left hand was still unable to execute a proper wank.

Now, wasn't that just lovely?

No, lovely was when Sherlock was on all fours, on the ground, wiggling his sheet clad pert bottom. Just like now. Oh, sweet Jesus how lovely that felt to the eyes how lo- wait, what? What the hell that git was doing poking his head (and almost the upper half of his body) into the now cold fireplace?

"What the hell are you doing there?" John, though not really a stranger to Sherlock's antics anymore, still exclaimed.

"Wha-owwww." Sherlock hit his head while trying to jolt back. "Must you scream like that?" Sherlock trotted to the kitchen grumbling where John had started sorting out the groceries by now.

"What were you- Jesus! Have you looked at yourself?" John grimaced at his flatmate. Every surface of his upper body was covered in soot. "Just what in bloody hell were you doing there, Sherlock?"

"Did you bring the milk?"

"Don't you even try to change the subject. What made you half bury yourself in that sodding fireplace? God, Look at you, all sooty and dirty. Wait here, you daft lunatic. I mean it, Sherlock, do not move a muscle until I come back."

John came back within seconds with a wet washcloth.

"Come here, yes, sit on th- Sherlock, sit."

Sherlock didn't like when John used his military voice to scold him. It made him feel like a puppy, but he never actually complained besides grumbling unintelligibly. John started to wash his face carefully.

"Now, tell me what were you doing there?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock."

Again that voice. Sherlock pouted but refused to answer. John stopped the washing.

"Are you trying to hide something from me?"

"No." Sherlock's tone was as indignant as ever, but John knew him too well to pick out the slight worry in that tone. He tensed.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me? What are you trying to hide? Tell me, please." John was well aware of the relapsing tendencies of the recovering addicts. But Sherlock wasn't like everyone else. He wasn't. He just wasn't, right?

"Sherlock, what was that you trying to hide and why?" John was half pleading and half coaxing now. His worry was increasing like mercury.

"Nothing that might interest you."

"Okay, alright but-but there is no harm knowing, yeah? You know how I want to know everything about you, right?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake John, stop treating me like a child. I know what you are thinking, it's practically written all over your face, and no, I was not hiding anything related to narcotics. I promised you, John and I would keep it _if_ you keep yours this time."

John's shoulder sagged with relief. He exhaled audibly. But then he perked up again.

"Then what was that?"

"A box, a bloody box, alright? I think I have as much right as everyone else to hide a box in m- our damned flat." Sherlock bristled with annoyance and didn't hide it.

But it wasn't enough to stop John.

"What's in the box?"

"And you lecture me about privacy. Hypocrite."

"I want to know... Please?"

 _Oh, damn John and his cobalt blue eyes._ "Memories and some mementos."

And of course, this had the exactly opposite effect to sate John's never-ending curiosity when it came to Sherlock. But he refrained himself from saying anything and waited for Sherlock to tell more.

And of course, Sherlock didn't.

After some moments in which Sherlock's glare intensified and John's brow went from smooth to furrowed, John lost his patience and asked, "And?"

"You won't stop, will you? You will keep tormenting me like this, won't you? Fine, I will satisfy your unwanted curiosity and after that I don't want to see your face for the rest of the day, understood? All right. Yes, I was hiding a box. That box carry some memories. By memories I mean your letters which you have had sent me till date; the photographs you sent me while you were still in that bloody battlefield and some of your fallen hair bearing your DNA in case you get murdered and mutilated and I need to confirm your body. Anything more? Oh yes, of course, the question about why was I trying to hide it in such a disgusting place. Because you see John, my life is surrounded by nosy meddling imbeciles, and Mrs. Hudson, who informed me that she would dust my room along with the whole damned flat later, is one of them. It may surprise you but I really do have some things in my possession which I do not wish to put on display. I intended to remove the box once she finished her sneaking, disguised as unwanted dusting activities. I hope I have covered all your inquiries or is there something more you wanted know?" His face was red and was panting a little by the time he finished his speech.

John sat on the opposite stool like a statue, staring at Sherlock who stared back with all his might, but instead of heat there was sheer vulnerability in his ever changing eyes. The dripping sound of the kitchen tap intensified the silence more. The atmosphere was getting thicker by every minute, but with tension or with something entirely different, they didn't know. They just knew that there existed nothing else except for the person they were looking at and both of them held their gaze.

They held their gaze until one of them couldn't anymore. He couldn't stop himself from leaning forward. He couldn't stop himself from touching those lush lips with his own. He couldn't stop himself from holding back anymore, and kissed the man who had changed and redefined the meaning of his life.

Who kissed whom? Didn't matter. At least not right now.

That merest touch of that chaste kiss, those sealed lips on lips ignited the flames that engulfed the last remaining barriers which were holding back these two aching hearts, and molten love, desire and longing started to flow and drown them until John realized something was wrong.

In a daze, with still tingling lips, John pulled back from the kiss and blinked slowly at the man he now belonged to. After few more blinks, his glazed half-lidded eyes went saucer sized though. Because Sherlock was not breathing.

Sherlock. Was. Not. Breathing.

Oh God, oh no, oh shit. Panic rose like a wild fire and John touched and squeezed Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sherlock?"

No response. His closed eyes didn't even make a movement.

John cupped Sherlock's cheeks with both of his hands.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, breathe, come on, open your eyes and breathe, Sherlock?"

The long lashes fluttered and opened at last revealing startled silver-green eyes.

"Sherlock?"

A whoosh of air left Sherlock, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

"Sherlock, are you alright? It's okay, it's alright. It was just a kiss. I shouldn't, I just- but it's alright now."

Sherlock just kept his eyes locked with the blue ones.

"Do you...do you want me to leave?"

Sherlock didn't respond in any way but didn't avert his eyes either.

"Sherlock, you are scaring me a bit now. I didn't mean- I mean it wasn't- I just- I just wanted to kiss you so much and I...uh...I-"

Sherlock stood up abruptly, left the kitchen in long strides, went towards his room and John heard the click of a door being closed.

John stared at the emptiness in front of him.

* * *

~0~0~0~

 **Fox Mulder: The lanky, sassy, adorable** git **from The X-Files!**

 **The song "What if I kissed you now" is my most favourite Johnlock song!**


	9. Chapter 9 Consequences Of A Kiss

**Hey, Guys!**

 **New chapter! Full of feels and then there is Lestrade!**

 **Hope you enjoy it despite the errors.**

 **Leave a review if you have minutes to spare. Hearing from you is the best thing about uploading a new chapter, and also it helps with the writing too!**

 **Koala hugs and treacle tarts for- SilentRaven97, Sandylee007 and my sweetheart, Kiddo, and the lovely people who followed/favourited this story! Thanks, guys. You Rock \m/**

* * *

 **Chapter: 8 Consequences Of A Kiss**

 ** _Whenever I'm alone with you_**

 ** _You make me feel like I'm home again_**

 ** _Whenever I'm alone with you_**

 ** _You make me feel like I'm whole again..._**

 **-** ** _"Lovesong"_** by **_Adele._**

* * *

Sherlock waited for the door to close, went to the bed and slid down on the floor, resting his back against the edge of the bed.

John kissed him.

John.

Kissed.

Him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his folded knees and brought them closer to his chest.

It was his first kiss.

His first.

Kiss.

Why did John kiss him?

In the past there were people who offered him sexual pleasure in exchange for favours- mainly academic, but sometimes to stop him from revealing their crimes. He never accepted anyone; never felt attracted to anyone; never needed anyone. But John? John wasn't anyone. John was...John. John didn't ask for any favour. He didn't have any dirty secret to hide. Then why?

Why did John kiss him?

That night when John hugged him, he felt his body responding to that touch. He wasn't surprised not feeling any kind of revulsion from that touch. He knew he wouldn't. It was John, after all. But what made him stop and ponder was that he actually wanted that touch. He wanted more. At that time he blamed it on the situation that made him loose his control and let his emotions run wild. But what explanations or excuses he had now? The situation wasn't anything like before. It wasn't heavy or much serious. He was practically yelling at that stupid, stupid John one moment and the next, he was being kissed. By John. On the lips. Lips! Maybe it was the abruptness that pushed him into his Mind Palace momentarily; though highly unusual, it could be a possibility. But then again, if that was true then why didn't he push John away? Why did he want to get closer, to reach out and touch John?

Sherlock put hesitant fingers on his lips. They were still tingling from the sensation.

Why did he like it?

Maybe because it was something new and not unpleasant.

Why did he want to feel John's lips again?

Maybe for collecting more data.

And why his stomach was in knots?

Maybe it was the excitement before discovering the truth.

But why did John kissed him? What was _his_ reason?

People defined kissing as an act of showing affection, love and acceptance. But ever since Sherlock learned to observe things, he saw people performing the act without meeting any of those terms. The world Sherlock roamed through didn't have a place for meaningless sentimentality. People touched each other for money; they kissed before stabbing the knife deep into their lovers' flesh. He tried to see the world through the eyes of a commoner, of someone who was not a _freak_ like him, who was oblivious of the battlefield this city really was. He really tried to, but all he could see was pretended affections, veiled revenge, hopeless persuasion. It was Mycroft who taught him that caring was not an advantage; it was _his_ experiences which proved this theory. But his world turned upside down when John entered his life.

John cared about him without any inhibition. He reminded Sherlock of all the positive things that Sherlock had forgotten, or at least tried to. And now he had kissed him.

But why?

Was it to shut him up momentarily? Or was it to show him that he-

There was a knock.

A pause.

Then, "It's me."

 _Of course, It's you, John. I would have recognized you anywhere._

After a while when there was another soft knock and another, "Sherlock, can I please come in?" Sherlock realized that he hadn't responded yet.

"It's open."

The door opened slowly, reflecting John's hesitation. Sherlock never averted his eyes from the door since he heard the first knock, and now he saw John standing there, one hand still on the door knob, the other clenched tight in a fist, resting by his side. Sherlock couldn't see his face clearly in the shadowy darkness of the room, but John's posture screamed guilt and embarrassment.

 _Is he embarrassed because he kissed_ me _? Was it not what he wanted?_

"Can I come in?"

"Yes." Sherlock noted that John was avoiding his eyes.

John took two steps into the room then closed the door after a moment's hesitation.

"I-uh- I wanted to talk to you."

"Alright."

He knew John was debating whether to come closer or not. When he exhaled audibly, Sherlock very discreetly shifted to make room for John, and seconds later John sat down beside Sherlock. It didn't escape Sherlock's eyes, despite the low light, that John flinched while folding his right leg.

 _He is distressed then_ , Sherlock thought.

John wrapped his arms around his folded knees just like Sherlock, and stared at the far wall. Sherlock kept watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

Nobody said a word for a long moment.

"I am sorry."

"About?"

"...about kissing you without your consent."

"Should I put the emphasis on 'kissing' or on 'consent'?"

No answer came.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"I am sorry."

"No, I don't need your apology, I need an answer. Why did you kiss me?"

John took a long moment to answer, "I...don't know."

Sherlock's jaw clenched tight.

"Oh. So, it was an impulse then. Or was it to shut my inane babbling?"

John was prompt to answer this time.

"No! No, it was not impulsive. I wasn't trying to shut you up. I wasn't, Sherlock. It wasn't."

Sherlock's eyes met with John's. They remained like that for a few seconds.

"Then why?"

John lowered his eyes and looked away. Sherlock waited for his answer.

"Do you know how difficult it is to see you from afar when all I want is to reach you, to touch you, to assure myself that you are real, you are with me, that I won't lose you again? Do you know how difficult it is for me to control my bloody emotions when you are just a touch away from me? You are the reason, Sherlock...you are the reason I wake up in the morning, thinking that I have a life to live, I have someone to live for." John had to pause to stop his voice from choking up. He tried to swallow the rising emotions down, to ease the pain he was feeling in his heart. "I kissed you because-because I couldn't _not_ kiss you anymore. When you told me about your box, I couldn't control myself anymore, Sherlock. I had to touch you somehow; I had to express myself somehow, anyhow. I kissed you because I wanted you to know what you do to me, what your presence means to me."

Sherlock was no longer looking at John. He couldn't. His grip around his legs tightened. He stared at the floor and gulped. Sherlock knew what all these things meant. He knew exactly what it was that John wanted him to know. But he refused to accept the truth, wanted to be oblivious deliberately; he wanted more. There should not be any place for an assumption, any guessing, any 'maybe' or 'perhaps'. His desperate heart wanted to be assured more profoundly. More. More confession. More John. More proof that his doubts were baseless.

"It is called sexual frustration what you are feeling. It is normal and expected from those who have had active sexual lives. You had one too, before the accident. Now that you have recovered more or less, your body is craving its old habit. The reason behind that kiss was nothing but your need for physical contact. I should have expected you to under-"

He had to stop as he turned to face John. John was frowning yet there was so much pain in those blue eyes. They looked wounded, bruised. John looked as if someone had denied him his right to live. Sherlock's senses halted by the sheer vulnerability John portrayed. The instant pain he felt in his chest left him breathless.

"Please don't."

It was barely a whisper. If he wasn't sitting this close to John, he wouldn't even know they were words and not the murmur of the wind.

John shook his head slowly, in a dazed way. "Please don't."

All Sherlock could do was to look at this man who held the ability to break Sherlock at any moment yet who chose to be broken by Sherlock instead. This amazing, infuriating, unbelievable man.

"Don't put my emotions on the same level as sexual craving. Don't assume to know things which you clearly don't. No matter how smart you are, there are still some things which are beyond your grasp. I-I am not smart like you. I don't know how to be eloquent, how to look elegant. I don't know how to solve crimes, how to control my emotions. Hell, I don't even know whether I can pay my half of the rent next month...But I know what love is, you know. I know how to love. And I love you." John's eyes were no longer looking at Sherlock. He couldn't. He hugged his knees more tightly to stave off the mild shaking his body was experiencing. "You may not understand it, may not be able to analyze it with your deductions, may not..may not want it, but I love you and it is the truth for me. What I did was wrong, but it wasn't some hormone driven impulsiveness. It was my way of expressing my-my….." John trailed off.

Sherlock's mind was chaotic and blank at the same time. He felt too numb to move even a muscle. Silence prevailed between them until John's quiet voice broke it.

"I'll move out as soon as possible but it may still take some time to arrange a bedsit. No, you are not forcing me, or throwing me out, but what..happened today, I can't guarantee that it won't happen again. I am not some randy teenager, but I also can't take that risk. This was one of my reasons for refusing to share a flat with you before. So I…um…-"

"You want to leave me?" Sherlock had found his voice at last.

"No. But I have to."

"Why?"

"Because this is not what you want."

"Aren't you doing the same thing which you told me not to do?"

"What? What thing?"

"Assuming to know something which you clearly don't."

John's confusion was written all over his face. Sherlock looked away.

"You _assumed_ that I would be ready to let you go before you went to that damned mission. You _assumed_ that you wouldn't be good for me after you came back. You _assumed_ that I would be at risk if you shared a flat with me. And now you are assuming that I don't like it, don't want it, don't need it. Do tell, John, what else do _you_ think that I think?"

John gaped. "You liked it?"

"I need more data to conclude."

"More data? You mean…you want me-want me to- you want-"

Sherlock huffed in exasperation, "Yes, John, kiss. I want you to kiss me once again to confirm my opinion about it. I need more data; therefore, you need to ki-mmph"

This time, John really pounced on Sherlock, shutting that smart mouth by sealing their lips together. After a moment of coping with the suddenness, Sherlock melted into the touch.

John's right hand was tangled in Sherlock's curls and he cupped his face with his left. Sherlock grabbed the front of John's shirt for leverage. An involuntary moan escaped him when a supple tongue traced the curve of his still closed lips, trying to probe them open. John lightly bit the luscious bottom lip, gently sucking on it. Sherlock gasped and John's tongue plunged into his mouth without missing a beat.

Sherlock was drowning. His limbs felt numb, he couldn't breathe. With closed eyes, he grabbed what was in front of him and pushed himself towards it. As a result, he ended up almost in John's lap. Neither of them took any notice of it as John's tongue kept exploring Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock kept losing himself in that sensation until John's tongue touched his and coaxed him to join. Sherlock's eyes snapped open at that, he let go of John's shirt and circled his arms around John's neck, just when John was about to withdraw, sensing Sherlock's loose grip. Sherlock finally kissed back.

The kissed started with renewed passion. Time had stopped for Sherlock long ago.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, panting and hyper aware of the painful pressure in his pants.

He had no idea how things had come to this. One moment he heard Sherlock talking about kissing, the next there was soft plump lips and a warm pliant mouth, and then he found himself with an armful of Sherlock, wrapped in a sheet, sitting on his lap!

Once his breath became less erratic and his arousal abated somewhat, the reality came crashing down.

He had kissed Sherlock. Again. More like snogged his tonsils out, actually. Without even asking for his permission properly. Oh. God.

But Sherlock's arms still clung to his neck and from the rising and falling of his chest, it was clear that he hadn't stop breathing like before. So, those were positive signs, right? Sherlock had asked for more data, more kissing, so he didn't take advantage of him, right? Right?

John slowly pulled away from Sherlock's shoulder to look at him. Sherlock's eyes were still closed. Those cupid bow full lips were wet, red, well kissed. John licked his own lips to capture the remaining taste of passion, desperation and…..love. Yes, he could say the word now. Love. He loved Sherlock, was in love with him. And the kiss was his heart's confession.

He brushed his thumb over that chiselled cheekbone. A shiver ran through Sherlock's body.

"Sherlock?"

In the silence, even a whisper sounded louder.

Sherlock's parted lips were the only reaction John received. He traced those lips with his thumb.

"Sherlock?"

The molten silver eyes slowly opened at last. Their usual sharpness was replaced by raw palpable emotions which increased John's heartbeat instantly. Sherlock's eyes focused on John.

"Hey."

"John?"

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"Are you alright? Sherlock?"

John received no response. Sherlock just kept staring at him and John held his gaze. He had the feeling that Sherlock was searching his own answers in John and John would let him have it. He opened his face as much as he could, and looked back at Sherlock.

He probably found what he was looking for as moments later Sherlock closed the distance between them, pulling John to himself with a viciously possessive force, and nuzzled his face in the crook of John's neck.

"Don't leave me."

Three words. Common. Much used. Conveyed emotions closer to need than romance. But John had all of his questions answered with those three words. The instant he heard them he knew his feelings were reciprocated. He knew that Sherlock had confessed, in his own way. John knew that Sherlock was _his_ now.

But he had one more answer to give.

"Never."

John rested his cheek on Sherlock's messy curls and breathed.

He felt complete.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Greg Lestrade knew that the world had come to an end at last, when Sherlock's landlady warned him to give Sherlock some privacy.

"And why should I do that? That bastard doesn't even know what that word means."

"Oh! Such language. Didn't your mother teach you any manner?"

Greg eyed this small woman- who was currently escorting him to Sherlock's flat- very suspiciously.

"Are you sure you are _Sherlock's_ landlady?"

"Oh, hush. Now, be a good lad and stand or sit over there. No no, not there, that's John's chair, Sherlock throws a tantrum every time someone else takes it. Oh, no not that one too, that's Sherlock's. Sit on the couch if you want, just don't touch the skull, dear. Alright?"

"I'll just stand here, thanks."

 _Wait, John? Who's..._ "Who is John?"

That must be Sherlock's room, Greg thought, as he watched Mrs. Hudson tip toeing towards a closed door down the hall.

"Oh, you'll know in a minute." The landlady replied casually, without turning, but then, as if on a second thought, she paused to look at him and added in a whisper, "they had a little domestic earlier, that' all. Oh, no need to look so worried, dear. You just go and make yourself comfortable, alright?"

 _Sherlock_. _Domestic_. _'they'_. What?

The DI rechecked Sherlock's message, in case he came to a wrong address. But it was 221B, and he was pretty sure there was only one Sherlock Holmes in entire England. Then... _what the hell?_

"Yoohoo, boys, come out now. You've got a visitor, Sherlock."

"Just a moment."

"Go away."

Greg heard two muffled voices yelling, and it didn't take a genius to tell which one belonged to the great git.

"They will come out in a minute. They have settled things down, it seems." The old lady beamed at him, making him think, once again, _what the hell?_

"Want a cuppa?"

That pulled him back from his musings.

"What? Oh no, but thanks."

"I'll leave you to it, then. But don't steal anything, young man."

An index finger shake followed that warning. Greg sputtered.

"I'm with the Yard!"

"Good for you but no stealing."

With that this bizarre woman left the room, leaving an exasperated Detective Inspector who, not for the last time, thought, _what the fucking hell?_

There were some muffled sounds coming from the still closed door. Greg strained his ears to listen.

"Not like that...why...put on something...no...just Lestrade...you're naked...no...fine... yeah..."

Greg wasn't sure if he should bang on the door, in case Sherlock was high again and someone, namely this John fellow, was taking advantage of him. Because, there was definitely something wrong when Sherlock Holmes was behind a closed door, naked with another man, refusing to put on clothes.

Before he could decide to do anything the door opened and glided in a very sulky looking but fully clothed Sherlock, followed by an ordinary but decent looking blond bloke, who looked extremely sheepish.

"Sherlock." Predictably, the greeting was completely ignored, but Greg didn't notice as he was busy assessing this John.

Sherlock stomped his way to his chair and flopped down. John scowled at him. Greg narrowed his eyes.

"No, he wasn't taking advantage of me; No, he is not a drug dealer; and no, I am not high." Sherlock said to the kitchen door, stroking his steepled fingers against his chin.

John scowled at Greg now who, in return, scowled at Sherlock.

"Sorry, mate didn't want to be rude, but that one," Greg gestured at Sherlock, "had put me through so much trouble in the past that I have to be suspicious all the time. I'm Greg, by the way."

John's scowl dissolved and he took the extended hand, introducing himself as, "John. John Watson."

"And you are...?"

"I'm-"

"He is mine."

Both heads jerked towards the speaker who was still staring at the kitchen door.

"I'm what?"

"He's what?"

John's gawked. Greg looked between them. Sherlock ignored them both, of course, and continued on.

"So, what brings you here this time? I seriously hope you didn't come here for the sole purpose of chit chatting about my _private_ life."

And just like that he was on familiar ground again. Greg switched back to his DI mode without any further delay.

"There is a case."

"Of course, there is. There always is. But I won't take cold ones anymore."

"No, not cold. The investigation is ongoing for this one."

Sherlock was rocking softly back and forth, but as he heard those words, he sat completely still. The DI knew he had gotten Sherlock's full focus now.

"Five weeks ago the local police department got a complaint of a hit and run. The victim died on the spot an-"

"A _hit and run_? You brought to me a suspicious hit and run case?"

"No, it's not that simple, it's-"

" _Nothing_ is simple for you imbeciles. If Scotland Yard is engaging themselves to solve a hit and run case then I must congratulate you for finally hitting the pit of- oh! No, it's not just a hit and run, no. No local police department contacts the Yard for such a case unless that department is run by someone like Anderson, no. There is more to it. What is it? More homicides?" Sherlock's eyes shone with this manic gleam.

Unlike Lestrade, who was well aware of Sherlock's glee when someone got murdered, John winced.

"Yes, there is more to it. And this is why you need to _listen_ for more than three seconds when people are trying to talk."

Sherlock glared. "It's not my fault if you decide to present a case in such a boring manner. It's your fault that no one pays you any attention."

"Oi, I never have trouble catching attentions. Now, you want this case or not?"

Sherlock grumbled in response, which suspiciously sounded like, 'dying to get Mycroft's attention', but chose to be silent otherwise.

John was bubbling with questions. But he, too, forced his curiosity to shut up for now.

Greg marched on.

"It was just like any other hit and run case, where there was no trace of the car or of the driver, nothing out of the ordinary until there was another report of a homicide in Westminster, a couple of weeks after that hit and run. The victim died of a bullet wound." Greg took a brief pause here but hurriedly continued just when Sherlock was about to open his mouth. "Two different types of accidents, apparently separate and didn't draw any unusual attention till it was revealed that there was a close link between these two victims."

"Which is?" Sherlock's unblinking piercing eyes were on the DI.

"They were twins."

Sherlock leaned back on his chair, steepling his fingers once again, and narrowed his eyes.

"Identical or non-identical?"

"Identical. And no, it wasn't a mix up. That was the first thing that came to my mind, but we had to chalk that out quickly as-"

"Had to?"

" _As_ there was another report, a few days later. A homicide again. Poisoning this time. Didn't strike as exceptional till we discovered that the victim had a twin brother, and that brother was reported to be missing for a while. And there was no apparent relation between these four."

Sherlock was ramrod straight now, eyes wild with excitement. But before he could utter a word John beat him to it.

"Wait, so you're saying that someone is killing twins deliberately?" His voice reflected the incredulity he felt.

"Yes, John. Someone killing twins on purpose. Some kind vendetta against twins. Or a very large and messy plan. Oh, this is great. Not case wise great, of course. It could be a three in the end. I don't have enough data, but finally, finally a real case. But so much time has been wasted already. No time to dilly dally. Must move fast."

Greg bit the inside of his cheek to fight back the smug smile which threatened to appear. This Sherlock was familiar to him. He wanted to see this manic, crazy, arrogant prick instead of that washed out hollow shell of a man he saw at the rehab. And he had a feeling that this John played a vital role in bringing back Sherlock.

Sherlock looked insolent and brilliant. He looked happy and sated.

He looked at the two men- who were busy talking animatedly- and smiled to himself. Sherlock was not exactly like a brother, God no, he could never handle a brother like him, but he held a special place in Greg's heart.

"Alright, so..uh..are you coming?"

Sherlock blinked twice before shaking his head, "no, you go ahead. We'll drop by later."

The DI arched an eyebrow, "'We?'"

"Obviously."

"Right. Alright, I'll just go then. Nice to meet you, John, see you later." With a nod, Greg left.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Stop jumping around. Stop it."

"John, don't you see? Three homicides and probably more. A real case. This may not turn out to be as exciting as it sounds but it has potential, no doubt. Oh John, John, John. The allure of nice little murders..."

"What the fuck are you prattling about? Three people are already dead and probably that missing one too. A killer is on the loose, and you are bouncing around like a tennis ball? Allure of murder? What the hell, Sherlock?"

"..."

"..."

"I am not a nice man, John and you know that very well. I never tried to hide mys-"

"Oh, shut up, you drama queen. You are an over grown five year old, is what you are. Now, put something warm on and tell me more about Greg while we head to NSY. What exactly does he do? Oh, for God's-! Stop grinning like that; it's scary."

"Can I have more data before we leave?"

"Data? About what?"

"About the...um..thing we were talking or rather doing before Lestrade interrupted."

"You want me to kiss you again?"

"Very astute, John."

*muffled soft sucking noises*

"So...was that okay?"

"Mm, I'll need more data to confirm that."

"And I'll be happy to provide them."

"Is that a promise?"

"Umm...you'll have to find out. Now, put that coat on and let's go. We have a case to investigate."

"Three murders. Yesss."

"And then we will talk about that 'he's mine' thing, alright?"

"No time to talk, no time to waste. Hurry up. Move move, chop chop."

"Hey, stop pushing me, you brat."

"The game is on, John. Shall we?"

"Oh God, yes."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

 **This was my first attempt in writing anything physically intimate. So, if you are weirded out by something, please be considerate. *puppy eyes***


	10. Chapter 10A Field Day Of Data Collection

**Hey guys,**

 **Merry Christmas! Hope you all are merry and gay *wink wink* :D**

 **I've been unwell, hence this late update. :( But this chapter is a massive one! And my first attempt at writing a case! It's not my cup of tea, clearly, but I tried. There are lots of OCs in this chapter and mentions of murder. I had fun writing them. Hope you'd enjoy them, too.**

 **Hugs and cookies for Nauss, Raven, Sandylee, Jwolf, Amista and TJSC for making my days brighter with your words. You are the best. And a squealing "looooove youuuuu" for all those amazing people who followed/favourited.**

 **Enjoy the read. Leave a word behind if you do.**

 **Have a dazzling and very much Johnlocked New Year!**

 **See you next year!**

* * *

 _ **You're such a beautiful freak**_  
 _ **I wish there were more just like you**_  
 _ **You're not like**_  
 _ **All of the others**_

 _ **But that is why I love you**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **That is why I love you**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_

 _ **Some people say**_  
 _ **You have a problem**_  
 _ **But that problem**_  
 _ **Lies only with them**_  
 _ **Just 'cause you are not like**_  
 _ **The others**_

 _ **That is why I love you**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **That is why I love you**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_

 _ **Too good for this world**_  
 _ **But I hope you will stay**_  
 _ **And I'll be there to see**_  
 _ **That you don't fade away**_

 _ **You're such a beautiful freak**_  
 _ **I bet you are flying inside**_  
 _ **Duck down and then go for cover**_

 _ **And know that I**_  
 _ **I love you**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_

 _ **You know that I**_

 _ **I love you**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_  
 _ **Beautiful freak**_

\- ' **Beautiful Freak** ' by ' **EELS** '

(Song suggestion- my dear friend, Su)

* * *

Although, he had never been to New Scotland Yard before, John had some ideas about it, or at least he thought he had. He thought it to be a well maintained fancy place with competent people. Oh, how the scene had hit him after entering the Yard. It was a _hovel_. The cubicles and desks were cluttered with heaps of files; the waste-bins were overflowing with empty crisp bags and Styrofoam cups; the confusion etched on the staff's faces seemed perpetual.

"What the hell are you doing here, freak?"

John's head snapped towards the speaker. It was a dark skinned woman with fuzzy hair and bite-your-head-off kind of expression. And she was addressing Sherlock. Did she just call Sherlock a... _freak_?

"You still think I am answerable to you? How delusionally optimistic of you, Donovan."

"It's not a freak show where you can come whenever you want to and dance around."

"Bet you have enough experiences, or I dare say personal experiences, to determine that. Come on, John."

"Hey, what are, hey you-"

Sherlock didn't even spare a glance. But John came forward and stood in front this _charming_ woman and smiled serenely. Donovan scowled.

"Who're you?"

John didn't answer, instead he said, "I respect those who are aware of their professional boundary."

The confusion joined the deepened scowled on Donovan's face.

"Good for you."

"Yeah, I bet it is. But it can be bad for you, unfortunately."

"What exactly are you trying to say? Who the hell are you?"

"I have a habit of showing people their rightful places who tend to misuse their professional power."

Donovan opened her mouth but John beat her to it.

"Call him a freak again and I'll prove it to you."

The steel in John's voice was clear even though his tone was amused.

Donovan looked too dumbstruck to yell.

John moved towards where Sherlock was standing in front of a closed door. He knew Sherlock had seen everything, and John wanted to say something but stopped himself. Sherlock was looking at him with a very serious expression and biting his lip. That was something so unusual about him that John took a moment to explore it more, but Sherlock turned abruptly and opened the door without knocking.

John rolled his eyes.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"Can't you _ever_ knock? Damnit." Greg spat in between his coughing fit. Apparently, Sherlock's dramatic entrance (with the addition of that loud bang of the door) had forced tea down the wrong pipe of Greg's throat. "It's my office, Sherlock. You can't just come barging in like that."

Sherlock made a show of looking around, and then turned to the DI, arching an eyebrow. He looked so much like Mycroft, at that moment. John shook his head and took a look of the room. And honestly, what a mess it was!

"Um, Greg, how long have you been living here?"

"Piss off."

John snorted. Greg snorted back. Sherlock scowled, and moved closer to John.

"It is eye rottenly good to see you two getting all chummy and everything, but some people do need to work too. So, if you are finished with your snorting session, may I take a look at the case files?"

Greg rolled his eyes, "Here." He handed Sherlock a brown channel file, which he opened promptly. John peeked at it, standing beside him.

Inside, on the front page, was a picture of a man in his early twenties, along with his autopsy report and other forensic details. There were some pictures of the dead body too.

"That's William Bailey. His girlfriend claimed his body. As there was no evidence of any other foul play, the Police Department released the body. But nobody has claimed his brother's body yet. Dead parents with no other close family member. The body was in Westminster PD morgue, but after NSY took over the case, the body has been transferred to Barts. The third body is also there. Molly has done the tests herself. The reports are in that file. And you will share everything you'd-"

Sherlock dashed out of the room.

Greg threw his hands in exasperation. John face-palmed before following the brat, but stopped short at the door.

"Uh, I may have threatened one of your staff, thought you should know."

"What? Which one? What did you say? Why?"

"She called Sherlock a freak, you know." John explained, defending his action.

Greg sighed dejectedly. "Donovan then. What did you say to her?"

"I just, um, told her to back off, otherwise I'd do something unpleasant."

"Jesus, John. You threatened a sergeant, a _lady_ sergeant of NSY?! What's wrong with you?"

"In the Army, we are trained to treat mortal threats with equality. She called Sherlock a fr-"

"I know! I know, Jesus, I am aware of what she calls Sherlock. I have warned her numerous times….. Jesus… You are not going to actually do something, like, punch her, are you?"

"Of course not!" John sounded offended, even though he was the one who made the threat. But he was just trying to scare her off. Surely Greg didn't think that little of him, or did he?  
"Um, I should go now."

"Yeah, alright, yes….and, John?"

"Yes?"

"Try not to do something like this again, okay? I seriously can't deal with another Sherlock."

A very diabolical grin appeared on John's face. "Don't worry. You won't have to. I am on a different level than Sherlock."

Greg face-palmed this time.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John had never seen someone better fitted for the description of a lovesick puppy than Molly Hooper. The moment Sherlock strode into the lab, it seemed that, the rest of the world disappeared for this young woman. All her attention zoomed onto Sherlock, who for his part, promptly started throwing commands, "I need all the test results of the bodies. Anything and everything you have found, analyzed, or rather failed to analyze, along with the lab reports. "

"Hi." Came the answer to that command.

Though standing behind Sherlock, John could feel Sherlock's deadly glare. He cleared his throat. That seemed to break Molly Hooper's trance, as she looked behind the tall frame of Sherlock and saw John.

"Oh." She exclaimed in a small but shrilly voice and looked at Sherlock questioningly. The Detective blinked and frowned in confusion.

Of course, it would be confusing to Sherlock as to why Molly found it surprising that he had dragged some stranger into her lab. John sighed and came forward.

"Hello, I am John Watson."

"Oh, um, hi. I'm Molly. Hooper. Molly Hooper." She gave John an embarrassed smile, but again looked at Sherlock questioningly.

John bit his lips and hoped for Sherlock not to blurt out, 'mine' again.

"He is with me."

"Oh. But-"

"Molly, the reports and results."

John saw the girl's face fall; she looked at John again and gave a tight smile.

"Um, I should probably go and try to find Mike."

Sherlock whirled towards him with his uncanny vampiric speed.

"Why?"

"I told you that I'm gonna try to find, Mike."

"But we are busy here, in the middle of a case."

John blinked at him in confusion, "Uh, yeah, that's the point."

Sherlock scowled, clearly irritated by John's reply. " _We_ are busy here, John. Me and you, we."

 _Oh. We._

"Okay, alright. But I don't see how am I…." John trailed off, watching Sherlock, who set his jacket on the back of a chair and started tinkering with the telescope on the desk."

"I need my personal assistant with me at all times." Sherlock drawled without averting his eyes.

"Oh. So, you actually need your personal _slave,_ to bring your phone out of your own pocket, or hand you a pen which is already within your reach, or even scratch your back when you needed him to?"

"Slave? A curious choice of a word, John." Sherlock quipped with a lopsided smirk.

 _Uh…no, Sherlock could never make an innuendo, nope_. So, John retorted back, "Brat."

Sherlock smirked. John smiled an affectionate smile without intending to, and somewhere something fell on the floor.

No, not Molly Hooper. The files she had in her hands.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

The victim, the second one, white Caucasian male, in his early twenties, had a ' _beautiful and neat_ ' bullet wound on his right temple. John was pretty sure no living person held the ability to affect Sherlock enough to use those adjectives while describing them. _Not even me_ , he thought morosely.

"John! What do you think?" Sherlock beamed at him.

"What? Oh, yes, very sad."

That earned him a scowl.

"Sad? This is a fresh murder victim, John!" As if somehow that had escaped John. "A fresh dead body of an ongoing case, well relatively fresh, at least. A case where twins are getting killed. Oh, John, this is Christmas!"

John looked horrified.

"Sherlock! He was killed, and he- could you, could you please stop squealing happily over a dead body? At least not in front of," John made a gesture towards poor sod lying in front of them, "him?"

"He's dead." Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

"Sherlock, people don't usually do that."

"Sentiment?"

"Yes."

"Boring."

John rubbed his hands over his face, and shook his head. Molly Hooper was sitting quietly in one of the corner, and John thought that a bag of popcorn would go brilliantly with her eager and excited expression. John sighed, again.

"Can I sit here while he does his...his happy jive?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure, yeah."

"Thanks."

A few moments passed quietly, but John knew the girl sitting beside him sneaked glances at him every now and then, and he could almost hear the sound of her bubbling questions.

John tuned towards her and smiled. Molly's return smile was shy.

"So, um, you know Sherlock for long?" John decided to be the one to break the silence.

"Oh no, not for long, um, it's been almost three years. It's quite long. No, I mean not loooong long, but long." She smiled with awkward nervousness.

"Yeah, that's long enough, yeah."

"Mr. Watson-"

John interrupted immediately, " Please, call me John."

"Oh, okay, alright, John." She smiled again, "Can I- can I ask you something?"

John knew what she was going to ask, "Yeah, sure."

"Does he- does he really ask you to scratch his back for him?"

 _Huh?_ No, this was _not_ the question John was expecting. "Umm, yeah, he does, really."

John watched Molly's face fall a little.

"Oh."

There was silence again. John felt uncomfortable and wanted to ask something, anything, but he knew nothing about this, girl and after _that_ question, he wasn't even sure what he should ask.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Are you two" Molly was clearly struggling with the word, "together?"

John looked closely at Molly. She was clearly head over heels about Sherlock. And seeing John with him today, realizing that there was something more than mere friendship going on in between them, must not have been easy for her. And yet, she was still smiling, trying not to show her disappointment. It was not pity, nor his desire to establish the fact that Sherlock was his, that encouraged John to tell her the truth. He thought that he would want to actually befriend this timid looking girl.

"I- I don't know, Molly. Uh, can I call you Molly? Thanks. We haven't labelled our relationship yet, didn't feel the need to. But for me he's the most important person in world. He's my best friend. I, uh, I hope I am his, too. And I...love him. Very much."

She, not even once, averted her eyes from him during his speech, but at the end of it she turned her sad eyes to Sherlock.

"It's impossible not to love him once you get to know him, isn't it? I don't know why others can't see it."

John was looking at Sherlock too, who was currently sitting in front of a microscope and mumbling God knew what. John's heart swelled with affection at the sight.

"Yes, it is...yes."

John looked at Molly again, who in turn looked at him and broke into an embarrassed giggle.

None of them saw the man sitting across the room narrowed his piercing eyes at them.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"John? I need more data."

The voice boomed in the otherwise silent lab, pulling John out of his conversation with Molly.

"What?"

"You are here to assist me. So, it would be helpful if you tried to keep up with me. I said, I need more data." Sherlock bristled.

John frowned, clearly at a loss, "Um, okay. So, where do we need to go?"

Of course the idiot didn't understand. "I need _data_ , John. From you."

It was amusing to see how John's face went from confused to horrified, when the understanding dawned upon him. Finally.

"You- now?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

"Mmhm."

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"We are in the lab."

"Your talent to point out the obvious is commendable, although I fail to understand your point."

"We are in a pub-public place!"

"No, we are in a lab, as you very efficiently pointed out."

"But" John had to lick his dry lips at this point, "but Molly is here!" _Why is he doing this?_

"Molly, get out."

"Sherlock!" John couldn't believe this was happening.

"Oh, I, um, okay. I need to check some-"

"No, Molly, please. You don't need to go anywhere. We are- I'm sorry. Sherlock?" John threw Sherlock a death glare. In vain.

"Molly, I need John to kiss me now. I presumed that your presence would pose as a hindrance, and also you might not want to be here while that happens. But, John seems reluctant. So, you can stay where you are, if you want to."

"Oh, um-" Molly scurried away from the room as quickly as possible, sporting a crimson face.

John stood there. Too shocked to utter a word.

"Well, I am waiting."

That seemed to break John's shock bubble and he yelled, "The hell you are. What's wrong with you? Why did you do that Molly?"

And of course, Sherlock had the audacity to look obliviously innocent. "Did what?"

"Oh, shut it, Sherlock." John snapped out, but sagged his shoulder in resignation, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That girl is clearly besotted with you. Was that necessary?"

Sherlock frowned and looked away from John, focussing his gaze on his own hands instead. "I thought you would not object socially acknowledging our… whatever this is we have between us."

John could almost pin-point the moment when all his frustration towards Sherlock went away out of the window.

"Sherlock…..no no, that's not what I meant. That's not-" John rounded the table and stood beside Sherlock's chair. Sherlock didn't look up, but started to arrange some slides for the microscope, avoiding John's gaze.

"Sherlock, that's not what I meant. You know how proud I am of you. You're everything to me, and I have absolutely no qualms letting people know that this genius of a mad detective is all mine."

He decided that a pouting Sherlock was the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

"Then why were you yelling at me?"

"Because, Molly likes you. She would feel bad that you dismissed her like that."

"But, wasn't it kinder to let her know the truth rather than misleading her?"

"Well, your intention was good, no doubt, but, uh, the way you said it was…."

"Not good?"

"A bit not, yeah."

"But you are responsible too."

"Me? How?"

"You sat over there with Molly instead of sitting here with me, and giggled like two mindless school girls. I had to do something."

John was speechless for the umpteenth time that day, and then, he cupped Sherlock's face with both hands and leaned forward.

"You are one jealous bastard, aren't you?"

And smashed their lips together.

After kissing, nibbling and tasting each other for few moments- in which John sat down on Sherlock's lap for better angle, and Sherlock tugged at John's hair with all his might- they pulled away, panting and licking their still wet lips.

John was still on Sherlock's lap and tracing circles onto the soft skin behind his ears, when Sherlock spoke.

"John?" voice raspy.

"Yeah?" John replied looking at those swollen red lips.

"I have an erection."

Glazed icy blue met cobalt.

"Me too."

And they giggled, kissing each other till there was a knock and a shrilly, "It's me!"

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

It took exactly five words to change Sherlock's eyes from glazed to manic. It was eerie, really.

"Show me what you've got."

And immediately, John found himself being dragged into the morgue, again. A still blushing Molly accompanied them.

"So, tell me, genius, did you find out anything?"

"Anything? Hmm. Why don't _you_ tell me what you think about his wound?"

John was taken aback completely, "Me? But... Okay, alright. Let's see." He leaned closer to the corpse. "Um, semi-automatic handgun, shot from a close range, died instantly. No apparent bruises on the body, no sign of fighting, hmm….so, the shot came...suddenly?"

John looked up and saw Sherlock beaming with satisfaction. John felt a bit shy suddenly.

"Not bad, John, not bad at all. Well, I didn't expect any less from you, but it was good."

A brilliant smile tore across John's face. "Thanks, now what didn't I get?"

Sherlock looked as if he was waiting to be asked just that. He took a deep breath and started-

"Yes, you are correct about the type of the gun. It was indeed a semi-automatic. More precisely, a Baretta Storm. The shot was a close ranged one, but it wasn't sudden. The bullet wound is on the right side. The shooter was left-handed, obviously. Now, a skilled shooter positioning himself on the victim's right side for better angle...it wasn't sudden."

Sherlock wasn't finished, yet. "Now, look at this one," Sherlock moved to the body of the third victim. Again another male. Early twenties, Caucasian- wait! Wasn't the description similar to the previous one?

"Um, Sherlock? Sorry, it's just-" John apologized immediately as soon as Sherlock scowl at him, being interrupted on mid-speech. "What was the age of the first two victims?"

Sherlock's scowl turned into a pleased smile.

"Ah, finally you have learned to ask the right questions, Watson."

John just arched an amused eyebrow but didn't say anything.

"These murders are not random. These twins are not picked out randomly. There is a link between these four." Sherlock paused, and John guessed it was more for a dramatic effect than the need for drawing air.

Oh, now Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. "Uh, what link?" John realized that he was required to ask that. Sherlock looked like a pleased drama teacher whose student had spoken the right lines at the right moment.

"The link is that they all were born in the month of April, 1992."

John's brows went up to his hairline, "What? So, they are the same age?" It was not really a question, but John could not seem to wrap his mind around it.

Sherlock hummed in response.

"Hang on. W-why on Earth someone wants to kill same aged twins? That's extremely creepy and weird!"

"No, it is not. It is in fact a very poorly executed messy plan. There is an idiot or idiots, waiting somewhere for us to hand them over to the Scotland Yard."

"So, what do we do now?"

"I asked Lestrade to send me the details about the victims' birth records. He is taking ridiculously long to provide the information. Nothing surprising there, let me tell you. But meanwhile, we are going to meet William Bailey's girlfriend." Sherlock informed, checking his phone once again, and turning to leave.

"But didn't you want to show me something about this one?" John asked, pointing at the second corpse.

Sherlock was already on his way out, tapping on his phone. "Hmm? Oh, I'll tell you on the way. Come on, John, chop chop."

The door closed behind Sherlock's retreating back. John turned to Molly.

"So, um, gotta go."

"Yeah, okay."

"It was really nice meeting you, Molly."

"You too, John. I enjoyed talking to you."

"Me too, see you soon."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"Sherlock, I swear to God, if you stop cabs like that one more time, I'm gonna kill you myself. And I am NOT bluffing."

Sherlock made a pfft-ing noise, "Of course, you are."

And of course, that went very well with John's rising temper.

"Now, listen you incorrigible brat, you-" he seemed to be struggling with his words.

"I think it was pretty cool, mate. Very James Bond-ish, if you ask me." It was the driver that chirped in.

"Yeah? Well, nobody asked you, so, keep your mouth shut, alright?" John snapped, but then looked a little more closely at the driver, two large warm brown eyes meeting his over the rear view mirror, the dark haired driver was rather good looking. "Hey, how old are you? Are you- are you even eligible to drive a cab? Do you have your licence? What are you, thirteen? Hey hey hey, keep your eyes on the road! Jesus! What's wrong with the kids these days?!" John groaned in annoyance and leaned back dejectedly.

John didn't notice how the driver kept looking at him through the mirror every now and then.

The cab finally stopped in front of an old red-bricked building. Sherlock got out first, and just when John was opening his wallet to pay, he heard the driver telling Sherlock conspiringly, "That one is mental, mate, I tell you."

John bristled. "Oh yeah? Then how about I don't pay you?"

"Oh, come on, I didn't mean it like that."

"Hell you didn't. Here," John handed him the money, "and I still think you don't have a legal licence."

John thought, as the cab sped past him, he heard a distinct, 'See you soon, John.' But that couldn't be. God, he had started hearing things now.

John turned and saw that his git of a detective had already entered the building.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"Our condolences, Miss Wright."

"Thank you, but, uh, who are you again?"

"We worked with William."

The woman, a tall red-head with a blotchy red face, frowned and looked Sherlock up and down. "You work at a departmental store?"

"Ah, no actually. When I said 'we', I meant my friend here, John."

The woman's eyes shifted to John, "Oh, I see." And she looked convinced.

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. But before he could say anything, Miss Wright opened the door more widely for them to enter. While they were walking towards the offered couch, Sherlock whispered into John's ears, "Investigate, John. Amaze me."

John froze mid-step. Investigate? What would he investigate? Did Sherlock really want him to ask the questions? But he hadn't any clue what to ask! Bloody hell.

"Er...uh..I am...we are sorry for your loss, Miss Wright. He was a good man." John said aloud. Internally he was chanting, _'calm the fuck down. You can do it. Damn you, Sherlock. Not really.'_

Jenny Wright, the young woman, sat opposite them, and sniffled in reply. John looked at Sherlock, who was currently tapping his foot and observing Jenny like a hawk, didn't look back. John gulped.

"So-"

"Would you like something to drink? Tea or-"

"Water, please." John interjected. Beside him, Sherlock chuckled. _Git._

"What the hell am I supposed to say?" John gritted his teeth and growled at Sherlock as soon as Jenny left the room.

"Why, John, you were a soldier; you were trained to interrogate."

John gaped. "I was an _Army doctor_. And they were suspected terrorists, not a bereaved gi- oh, thank you."

The said bereaved girlfriend had returned with two glasses of water.

"So, you had been working with Billy for long?"

"Uh, no, not really. Just a few months. He was a good man. Let me tell you, Miss Wright, how deeply sorry I am for your loss, and how his death has grieved me. But, um, why didn't you demand an autopsy?"

"An autopsy? Why an autopsy? It was a hit and run, wasn't it? Some bastard ran over him... Oh, my poor Billy..." The sniffling renewed full on.

"Of course, yes, of course. But the driver hasn't been arrested yet and…um, so, was there anyone who wasn't that much friendly with him, or...you know, wanted to hurt him? Enemies, maybe?"

"Billy? No, he wasn't that sort of a guy. He was really sweet and helpful. Caring and funny. We were saving for our marriage, you know... Anyway, uh, he had some problems regarding his shifts with that nasty store manager of yours, but it was resolved, and surely you know all about that?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know about that, certainly. But any other incident? Had he ever experienced anything suspicious? You know, like, someone following him, or threat-mails, or, um, or..." John trailed off, clearly at his wit's end.

But Jenny was gaping at him now. " Suspicious people? But Billy _never_ associated himself with that sort, he never- oh! Oh, God! Do you think someone killed him because of that criminal, his brother? I heard that he was killed too, after around a week later. But Scotland Yard assured me that that wasn't the case, but-but...oh..." The girl broke down completely this time.

"No, Miss Wright, I am not trying to imply that, not at all. I was just, it was just-"

"Come on, John, Lestrade has texted the information regarding the birth details."

"What? Now? But-"

"Lestrade? Isn't that the Yard guy? Why is he texting you? Who are you people?" The girl was looking at Sherlock, but now she turned her red-rimmed watery gaze to John, "Aren't you Billy's colleague?"

John wanted to kill Sherlock for his timing. "Erm...the thing is that-"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Wright, but we must take our leave now. And you may not want to keep that vase that your neighbour has given you. It's stolen."

With that Sherlock left the room, dragging an exasperated, fuming John with him.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Was that your idea of a joke? Because _that_ was not remotely funny. I lied to the mourning partner of a dead guy! Then left the woman more paranoid and troubled than before. Why, Sherlock? Why?"

"Oh, please. It wasn't that bad. I mean, your interrogation technique was awful, I can give you that, but at least it was amusing." The detective sounded thoroughly amused.

Apparently, that was a very very wrong thing to do.

John looked at him with glacial cold eyes and said, "You go ahead and enjoy your investigation. I am done with it."

Sherlock went from light hearted banter to full alert mode.

"You are serious."

 _No shit_ , John thought, but kept quiet.

"But why? I just saved you from dealing with more crying. She was about to snot all over you. I did the logical thing, didn't I?"

John's jaw muscle twitched. "I am going home."

"But we have to go to the hospitals, John. I think I have an idea."

John spun on his heels instantly, "you have solved the case?"

Sherlock looked mildly annoyed, "No, not yet, but soon I will. And I need you for that."

"For comic relief, I presume?"

"I can't function without you."

John never stood a chance, did he? He closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

"Trick me one more time and I'll have nothing to do with it."

"Duly noted."

John licked and chewed his lower lip for a moment, "Okay, now where to?"

The smile Sherlock gave him was worth that shitty trick, John decided.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

They first went to a private medical facility, called Divine Nursing Home, where the second pair of twins was born.

On their way John got to know that the poison that was found in the third victim's body consisted of a rare Chinese herb, which acted as the poisoning agent. It was not in the report as Molly could not identify it.

"So, how do _you_ know about it?"

"Because, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"And modest, too."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

The second pair of twins was born under the names of Christopher Harold Hicks and Robert Oscar Hicks. 4 minutes apart. Parents Rita and Emanuel Hicks. No physical deformities detected at the time of birth. No other anomaly. Two perfectly healthy baby boys.

Sherlock copied the address given in the records. There was next to no possibility of finding the remaining family there. They had victim's home address, so it would not be a problem. Sherlock had a theory, and to prove it, he needed to dig up some family history. But that would have to wait for now, as they had two more hospital record rooms to raid. Though Sherlock didn't have to check on the records regarding the Bailey twins, but John chided him for being _over confident_. It needed not to be told how Sherlock took that, but it was John, and Sherlock was frustratingly _compliant_ when it comes to one John Watson.

So, they ended up in the record room of Sacred Life Hospital, some forty five minutes later.

"We are wasting our time, John." Sherlock was practically whining now.

"But, it is always good to be completely certain, isn't it? No harm in looking."

"My my, didn't take you for someone who enjoys watching, John." A very suggestive look followed that statement.

"I- what?" John was gobsmacked, to say the least. He looked horrified. Did Sherlock just make a very sexual innuendo? Would he demand for data now? Here? Oh God. What had gotten into his Sherlock?

But whatever had gotten into Sherlock chose to hide for now as, John noted, he was, once again, looking through the record and grumbling under his breath. John had to blink several times and shook his head to come back to reality.

"Why are you so reluctant to look through the Bailey records?"

"Why are you so eager?"

John managed to give his stern face in return, and Sherlock scoffed.

"Baileys looked like their parents. I saw the family photos in William Bailey's house."

"O-kay, but aren't kids supposed to look like their biological parents?" John looked utterly confused.

"They generally are. Boring. However, in this case, that doesn't help my theory."

"What's your theory?"

"All in good time, John, all in good time."

"Must you be this dramatically mysterious to me, too?"

"Can't let you be bored of me, now, can I?" Sherlock answered while striding to the exit.

John caught his left arm. Sherlock turned and looked at him questioningly.

"That's my line you are quoting, Sherlock."

For half a second Sherlock looked confused, and then he beamed.

"You are many things, but never boring, John . Not to me."

"The feeling is mutual."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment more, and then exited the hospital. But not before giving a shy peck on John's left cheek, and leaving a momentarily stupefied John behind.

Well, it seemed Sherlock Holmes never did anything half heartedly.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

A total three sets of twins were born in 1992, and all of them were born in April. It was a rare incident.

They were going to another private medical facility now, St. Teresa's Home. According to Lestrade's information, here they would find the records about the third set of twins. While in the cab, Sherlock's phone chimed, signalling the new incoming text. Sherlock's lips formed a tight thin line upon reading it. He looked away, fist clenched.

John observed it all.

"They found the body of the fourth victim, didn't they?"

No response.

"From where?"

"From a muddy corner of Thames. An usually deserted area."

John clenched, unclenched his jaw. Despite his time as a RAMC in an active battlefield overseas, death was never easy to accept for him, especially if innocents were involved. John just dearly hoped for Sherlock to solve the case before the killer snatched away any more lives.

Because of NSY's special request, they never had to face any problem while surfing through the otherwise confidential data. This time the twins were a girl and a boy, and also non-identical. Anna Natalia Shaw and Fredrick Shaw were born to one Olivia Shaw on 23rd April of 1992. There was no mention of a father.

Sherlock was unusually quite since that text. Now he asked John to note the address, and started to text, John didn't interrupt him.

"So…. Are we going to visit the Hicks now?"

"No. Shaw."

"Oh, alright."

"Let's go then."

"Yeah, let's."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

The address was not very far from St. Teresa's. They reached it within 20 minutes, but what stood in front of them was a very modern residential apartment building. The chances of their finding the Shaw family here went from small to almost nil.

After coaxing, threatening and pleading the security guard again and again, (the sod was over acting his part, bastard), they came to know that the old landowner, a Mrs. Newby, still resided in the building.

They buzzed her flat from the outside.

A frail old voice greeted them over the speaker after a long moment.

"Who is it?"

"Tell me what you know about the Shaw family."

"What?"

John gave Sherlock a solid shove and stood in front of the speaker.

"Hello ma'am, good evening, uh, we are looking for the Shaw family that used to live here, can you tel-"

"Paw? Whose paw?"

"Not paw, Shaw, Olivia Shaw."

"Saw? Oh, saw whom? Is that you Gerard?"

Damn it. "Olivia Shawwww", John almost screamed.

"Oh, Olivia Shaw? But I am not her. She left a long time ago."

"Can you please tell us about her? We want to talk to you."

"Kettle?"

John banged his head on the side wall, completely defeated. And just when Sherlock was about to screamed through the speaker, the sodding guard took pity on them and came forward.

"Mrs. Newby, you've got visitors, shall I send them to you?"

John frowned. If she couldn't hear a thing when he was practically screaming his lungs out, how could she possibly hear _that_? As if to mock him, the speaker chirped just then, "Visitors? Why, yes. Send them up, Gerard. I wonder who they are though. The London Knitting Group, maybe….." Her voice trailed off.

"London has a knitting group?" Sherlock glared at John, as if it was somehow his fault that the group existed.

After a few moments, John stood, with a scowling, glaring, grumpy Sherlock, in front of a door that said 24D. The lady, who opened the door after the knock, could have easily been two hundred years old. A little, fragile woman, with a face so wrinkled that it resembled the detailed route map of London. But she had a kind warm smile, and John was immediately reminded of Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh? You are not from the knitting group, are you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly to retort, but John beat him to it.

"No ma'am, we are not. I am John and this is Sherlock. We just wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"Oh, such handsome faces. Come inside, come come."

The flat was very minimally furnished, but was very clean and well kept. A ginger house cat was snoozing off over one of the comfy looking chairs. It opened its eyes, looked at Sherlock and scowled, who scowled back, thus declaring their mutual feeling of hate at first sight. They sat on the sofa.

"Want some tea, gentlemen?"

"No, we're fine, but thank you, Mrs. Newby."

"I don't think you came here to give an old woman like me some company, did you?"

"Why? Is it a common occurrence for you to have strangers coming to you to offer their company?"

John kicked Sherlock under the tea-table. But Mrs. Newby didn't look fazed; she laughed good naturedly, then tutted Sherlock, "Don't underestimate old people, young man. That pretty face will also look like _this_ someday." She pointed at her own face.

But obviously Sherlock had to have the last word, so he replied, "We are not related, and physiologically very different. Therefore, there is absolutely no scientific reason for me to look anything like you in the future."

John aimed another kick but failed. The brat had moved his leg, predicting the coming blow.

Mrs. Newby turned to John with a very amused smile and asked, "Keeps you quite busy, that one?"

John gave a tired but fond smile, despite himself, "All the time."

"What do you know about the Shaw family?" Of course, it was Sherlock.

The old lady looked puzzled for a while, then the memories resurfaced, "Oh, you mean Olivia and her beautiful babies?"

Both of them nodded in reply.

"She was my tenant. A very fine woman. Could have gotten a better job than the one she was doing. Then had her babies- twins, a girl and a boy. Beautiful babies. And suddenly, one day she left with them." Her eyes had become clouded with the memories of the long past.

"Her husband, what about him?"

"I never knew him. I didn't even know she had one. While renting the rooms, she said she was single. Then she became pregnant and told me that her husband worked in a merchant ship, when I asked her about him. But honestly, I believed that she had those babies out of wedlock. I didn't mind though. You see, being childless, I know how to appreciate motherhood. And I liked Olivia very much." She paused to take a break. Her cat was now on her lap, giving Sherlock the evil-eye.

But before she could resume he monologue, Sherlock asked, "You said, she used to work. Where?"

Mrs. Newby seemed to look for that piece of information within her head. "I can't remember much, it's been too long…..but she was a private, um, private secretary of some sort. Of a very rich man."

A vague line was appearing, linking the dots in front of John's eyes. But he decided not to wild guess. Sherlock continued his questioning.

"When did she leave your house?"

"Just a few months after she had her twins. But she came back once."

"She what?" John blurted out.

"Yes, she came back after two or three years. Was looking for a place to stay. So, I let her stay in her old rooms. But she left after a month or so. Or was it four months? I can't remember exactly."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea where did she go, or where is she now?"

Mrs. Newby seemed contemplative, but suddenly she looked at them a bit more sharply. "Why are you asking so much about Olivia? Who are you?"

John was surprised to see that it took this kind lady this long to get suspicious of them. Maybe, it was her loneliness that had clouded her sense of caution, and made her grab any opportunity to have a chat with whomever that might be.

"Mrs. Newby, my friend here is a Consulting Detective. We are investigating a case."

"A consulting..- what does that mean?"

"It means-"

"We are with the New Scotland Yard, ma'am. We are undercover." John could feel Sherlock's scorching glare boring holes into the side of his face, but it was the best thing he could think of at that moment.

On the other hand, Mrs. Newby looked even more puzzled and a bit worried now. "Police? You are police? What case? Is little Annie in trouble? But she is a very good girl, let me tell you. She even-"

Sherlock didn't let her continue. "Annie? Are you talking about Anna Natalia Shaw, Olivia Shaw's daughter?"

"Why, yes! Do you know her? Is she alright?" Her worry was increasing rapidly. But Sherlock had no time or intention to soothe her.

"You had any contact with her recently? Do you know where she lives? Address or contact number? Anything?"

"I have her phone number, yes. I met her by chance, actually." She got up, probably to look for the phone number. The cat came towards John and nuzzled its face into John's jeans clad calf, before leaving the room. Sherlock looked positively blood-thirsty. Mrs. Newby's voice came from the other room, "…was returning home from one of my check-ups that day, and stumbled upon her. She visited me when she first came to London, so I recognized her. She gave me her phone number, saying that I should call her if I ever need anything medical related. She is a nurse now. A pretty young lady, all grown up… Here, it is her number."

Sherlock almost snatched the slip of paper from her hand. And got up to leave. John got up too.

"Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Newby. You helped us a lot. Thank you once again, and take care, alright?"

The old lady smiled, but soon her face became anxious again, "Will you please let me know if Annie is alright? She is a very nice girl, not like someone who may cause trouble."

Sherlock was already holding the door open. But John felt the urge to reassure the lady before dashing off, "Of course, I will. I will ask Annie to call you herself, yeah? And please check before you let strangers into your flat. Goodbye, Mrs. Newby."

John then followed Sherlock, shutting the door close behind him, but not before he heard an enraged cry of a cat.

"Did you just _kick_ her cat?!"

"Merely checking its reflexes."

"Sherlock!"

The detective was already tapping on his phone, the slip of paper clutched in one hand. Once they are outside, standing on a sidewalk, Sherlock dialled the number. John was standing close enough to hear a "Hello" when the call was received.

"May I speak to Miss Anna Natalia Shaw?"

There was a pause before the tinny voice replied, " Who is it?"

John watched Sherlock's brow furrowed before answering, "Are you Miss Shaw?"

Another pause, as if the speaker was considering whether to answer or not. "Yes, I am, but who are you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened considerably, John looked alarmed.

"Natalie?"

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

 **Don't you think John did the right thing while bashing Donovan? How was the case so far?**


	11. Chapter 11 Rolling In The Deep

**Hey guys,**

 **Happy New Year to you all. Hope you are all safe and healthy.**

 **Also, let's have a group hug and squeal is delight because JOHNLOCK IS CANON, finally! I'm ecstatic!**

 **Anyway, here is the next chapter. Some information about the case, Natalie aaaaaaand SMUT, at last! Also, this is my very first attempt writing smut, so be considerate. Hope it won't be too silly.**

 **I've noticed that this story is getting less and less reviews. Why so? Are my boys doing something wrong? If so, then I'm sorry for disappointing.** **L** **But if you are still reading, drop me a word. Your reviews do matter, a lot. As a writer that is the only way I get to know how my stories are being received, or should I change something about them. Anyway, I do hope people are still with us.**

 **Koala hugs, cookies and a John plushie for- Raven and Nauss for your very insightful and lovely reviews. And all those who favourite/followed this story or me! Thank you so much! Love you.**

 **Another IMPORTANT NOTE: I have a Johnlock one-shot, "Had A Little Domestic" which is a text only fic. Initially, I planned to make it a single chaptered story, but now I want to add some more chapters and I am open to plot suggestions. As it is a text-only fic, the other chapters will follow the same format, too, and will be one-shots. So, if you have a promt or an idea, you can PM me, or leave it in the review column. Thank you.**

 **Phew!**

 **Now, enjoy the read!**

* * *

 **Rolling In Deep**

 ** _"_** ** _We've been circling for time baby_**

 ** _We're coming down to land tonight_**

 ** _The wait is over and now it's easy_**

 ** _Everything is fine._**

 ** _The closer you get the better I feel_**

 ** _The closer you are the more I see_**

 ** _Why everyone says that I look happier_**

 ** _When you're around the better I feel..."_**

\- **'Closer'** by **Dido**

* * *

"Sherlock, is that you? Hello? What's wrong? What happened? And how do you know my full name? I don't go by that anymore! Where're you? Are you in trouble?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and told himself not to snap. He could feel John squirming with barely concealed curiosity beside him. But it wasn't the time for him to get distracted. They had a killer to catch.

"Where're you?"

"Me? Um, at the clinic, why? Sherlock, are you on drugs again? 'Cause I swear to God if you're-"

"Stay there until I come. And I mean it, Natalie, do not leave the rehab."

"O-okay, but Sherlock, are you-"

"I'm safe. John's with me. Stay where you are, don't leave."

Before Natalie could respond Sherlock ended the call.

"Was that your nurse Natalie? The rehab Natalie, who never took any shit from you?"

"Really, John?" Because only John could ask such an inane question, in every stupid way possible, at a time like this, and could get away with it too.

Apparently, those two words had their intended effect on John, as he looked chastised.

"No, it's- oh God! It's Natalie!"

But Sherlock was already texting someone, and John realized that it was up to him to summon a cab this time. Well, he would show Sherlock how to call a cab like a sane person.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in a cab, summoned by Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance, who was bubbling with questions but chose not to ask in case he disrupted Sherlock.

 _Considerate idiot._ "You have questions."

"Erm...yeah."

"Well, ask then."

"Isn't Natalie's last name Lewis?"

"Yes, or, at least her social profile says so."

"Is she married, then?"

"As far my deduction goes, no."

"So, you don't know for sure?"

"I fail to see how that particular knowledge should have been important to me."

"You've spent months with her!"

"Yes, in a rehabilitation facility, where she was my appointed nurse and I, her patient."

"Well, it's not as if you didn't communicate at all."

"Well, forgive me for not being able to sit around for an idle chit chat with my nurse while I was busy detoxing the remaining drugs from my system."

"I thought you guys were friends."

"Obviously you thought wrong, because I don't have friends."

John's finger stopped abruptly where it was tracing patterns on the dusty glass of the cab window.

As soon as those words left his mouth, Sherlock wanted to take them back. But the damage was done, and the only response he got from his companion was a subdued, "Of course, you don't."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John was still reeling from the conversation when they arrived at the clinic. He was almost certain that Sherlock didn't mean it. The detective was agitated and, therefore, did the only thing he knew to cope up with a stressful situation: he decided to be hurtful.

But that didn't make it alright; didn't make the lump in John's throat go away. And now he stood in front of the place where he first met Sherlock; where Sherlock wished he stayed dead.

Just bloody wonderful.

"Sherlock!"

The shriek came from Natalie as she saw them entering the hall.

"What happened? What's wrong? You didn't tell me anything over the phone! Are you using again? How the hell did you know my name?"

John had no idea that anyone else, other than Sherlock, could ask that many questions in a single breath. He just stared at her in astonishment. But soon his staring morphed into a frown as he watched Natalie checking Sherlock's pupils.

Nobody should touch Sherlock, especially when John couldn't. And why the hell the brat was acting so pliant?

As if reading John's mind, Sherlock swatted Natalie's hands with more force than necessary. "Will you stop your fussing? I said I was all right, didn't I? Now, you need to answer some-"

"It's Dr. Watson, right? Hi, how're you? Sorry, I didn't notice you before, though Sherlock said you were with him." Natalie ignored Sherlock completely and turned to John.

 _Yeah, yeah, as if it's possible to notice anybody, let alone me, when Sherlock is in the vicinity._ John mentally grumbled, but answered with a dazzling smile, "That's alright. I'm not really very noticeable. And please, call me John."

"Trying to go unnoticed with that smile? Not a possibility, John. In fact, I would say that-"

"What you'd say about John's smile, I think, can wait until we confirm whether you're going to be a homicide victim in the next few days. So, shall we proceed to talk, then?"

Natalie's eyes went saucer sized and she gawked openly. "Homicide what?"

"Um, Ms. Lewis, can we go somewhere a little more private?"

Natalie turned to John hearing him address her, and stammered in a very confused way, "Huh? Oh, yeah, there's- there's a room- _homicide victim_?!"

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

It was the same room where John first met Sherlock. _Fuck._

Both of them stood at the doorstep, none willing to enter. Natalie was muttering something under her breath, but now noticed that only she had entered the room.

"Is something wrong? We won't be disturbed here. It was Sherlock's, remember?"

"Yes, yes, we remember, yeah." John interjected quickly because beside him Sherlock was completely still. And just when John was about to reach to him, Sherlock blinked and entered finally. John bit down a sigh.

Natalie watched them with uncertainty and confusion.

"Now, I have some questions to ask and I expect you to answer me truthfully. Not that you can get away with lying to me, but that will only waste our time. So, shall we begin?"

Despite looking utterly baffled, she nodded anyway.

"Your actual name is Anna Natalia Shaw, but you have officially registered yourself as Natalie Lewis. You are not married. Widowed?... Nope. So, that leaves us with adoption. You were adopted."

Two pairs of eyes were zeroed on the detective. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in return.

"Um, was there any question for me?" She asked Sherlock, then looked at John in case she had missed the question part.

John bit the inside of his cheek. Sherlock looked smug.

"Well, I take that as affirmative. Now, the question is why? Why Olivia Shaw gave her two children up for adoption? Or was it only you?"

"H-how that fuck do you know so much about me?! What's going on? You know my mother?! What am I missing, Sherlock? Doc- John?"

John had this sudden urge to smack the git on the head for bombarding Natalie with such personal questions without any preamble. But apparently they were not talking, so instead of executing his plan to hit Sherlock with a frying pan, he chose to answer Natalie.

"Please calm down, Ms. Lewis. There's nothing to be panicked about..er..yet. We, uh, Sherlock is investing a case and for some reasons your family has come up in the investigation. If you please answer the things he has asked you, they will help him to solve the case."

She looked like she was struggling to wrap her mind around the whole thing. She shook her head, open and closed her mouth several times before saying, "Look, I haven't the slightest clue what's going on. What investigation? What about my family? I just- Fuck, it's crazy! Okay, alright. Uh, I- we, me and my brother, we're twins actually...so, um, we both are adopted. Christ! Is my family in trouble? Please, Sherlock, I need to know if they are!" Natalie blurted out, looking thoroughly ruffled.

"You and your brother, yes. Your whole family? Mm, I don't think so. There's only one way to ensure their safety, which is answering my questions. Do continue." After stealing a look at John, which he was caught stealing, Sherlock added, "Please."

Natalie wet her lips and swallowed before starting again. "I and my brother, Freddie, were six when our mother passed away. She was suffering from cancer. We were living at my Mum's sister's at that time. After Mum, my Aunt and Uncle adopted us. Lewis is my Uncle's last name."

"What about your father?"

"Mum never really talked about him. Told us that he left her when she was pregnant. She never met him again. It was a forbidden topic in our household."

"You or your brother never tried to find out more?"

"Well, I did. Tried, I mean. But my only source was my Aunt, and she told me that Mum never said anything about my father. And honestly, I wasn't overly eager to waste my energy and time over someone who never gave a fuck about us."

Sherlock stroked his steepled fingers under his chin and regarded Natalie thoughtfully.

"Where's your brother now?" The question came from John.

"Um, in Scotland, with my Aunt."

"We need to go to Scotland, now." Sherlock got up abruptly.

The resulting "what?!" was exclaimed in shocked unison.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"Why do we need to go to Scotland?"

Natalie couldn't decide if she should scream or just break into tears.

"Because I need to speak to your aunt." Sherlock spoke in a way as if she had the logical capacity of an earthworm.

"Why?"

"Information about your parentage is needed."

Both glared at each other. John was enjoying the show from the sideline. Well, 'enjoying' was a bit of an overstatement, but still...

"Look here, either you're gonna tell me what the fuck is going on, or I'm going to complete my shift and go home."

Sherlock frowned at her, "You can't go home. It's not safe."

"Urgh." Natalie snapped her mouth shut before it could turn into a full blown screaming. Instead she exhaled loudly and said, "Tell me already, Sherlock."

Shooting another sidelong gaze at John ( _seriously, what's with all these pouty stealthy looks? You're not really five, Sherlock,_ John mentally huffed) Sherlock said, "You are targeted to be assassinated. Or at least all the clues indicate that you and your brother are the actual targets."

"WHAT?! Assassinated? You mean like killed? How? OHMYGOD! I- I- I have to go; I have to reach Freddie. Oh God! Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why aren't you doing something? Catch the killer! You- you're the detective. I've to go. Freddie. Sherlock, do something!"

Sensing this probably would be the last straw for Sherlock's patience, John butted in.

"Hey, it's okay, it's alright, Ms. Lewis, calm down, it's okay. Everything is in under control. Nothing will happen to you or your brother. Sherlock is doing everything that's needed to be done. NSY is with us in this too. It's not a good time to lose your head, so I need you to calm down, yeah? For you to stay alone or telling your brother anything isn't a good idea right now. I assure you, if Sherlock thinks you are not in immediate danger, then you can relax a bit. We'll be off to Scotland the first thing tomorrow."

That seemed to have a somewhat calming effect on the nurse, but she still looked frantic.

"But John, you don't understand. Freddie, he can't defend himself. He's not capable of doing so."

Before John could utter another word, Sherlock interjected, "We need to go to Scotland now. Oh no, no need to look so alarmed. Nothing will happen for a few days now that the fourth body has been discovered. But there is no point in waiting. So, John, let's go."

"It's almost 9:30, Sherlock! At night!" Exasperation, exhaustion were oozing out of John.

"Your observational skill is top notch, as usual."

John bristled. "And how are we going to go there? Because I'm not taking a bloody train at this hour."

"Don't be daft. We won't be going by train. Call Mycroft to send a car." Sherlock said so casually as if John asked Mycroft to bring their groceries on a daily basis.

"I won't be calling Mycroft for anything. He's your brother; going to Scotland is your idea, so you'd be the one to ask him for this favour." John made sure to emphasize on 'favour', knowing well how that word would grate on Sherlock's nerve.

He hit the bull's eye.

"Asking for a car which usually is always parked in front of our home is hardly a favour." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

"Still sounds like a favour to me."

Sherlock glared at John but said nothing.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"What's going on, John? I know I sound like a broken record but I don't understand anything. Can't you tell me a bit more?"

It was strange to see the usually daring girl so scared and subdued. Her fear was more for her family than for her own life. John could sympathize with her. Ever since he had known Sherlock, he was constantly worried about Sherlock's life. Despite the detective's reluctance to disclose more than he did already, John decided to let her know a bit more about the case.

"Someone is killing twins on purpose. Twins who share the same birth date and year. Scotland Yard had contacted Sherlock for solving it. And while gathering the data, we came across, Mrs. Newby. We got your number from her. Oh, that reminded me that I promised her to let her know you were okay, but it would be better if you called her yourself. I know it's easier said than done, but please try to stay calm, Ms. Lewis. We'll try everything keep you safe." John gave her a tight smile.

"Please call me Natalie. And it's my brother I'm more worried about." Natalie now turned to look at Sherlock, who was a few paces away from them, busy talking over the phone, and asked, "Do you think he'll be able to solve it before...before it's too late?"

John was also looking at Sherlock. He paused before answering Natalie's question. Did he think Sherlock would solve the mess in time? "I'm sure of it." Was his brief answer, and he meant it with all his heart.

"I've asked Lestrade to contact the St. Andrews Police Department. They will appoint guards to your house. Now, we should go." Sherlock looked at John then. "Have you called Mycroft yet?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"He's your brother, you call him."

"John."

"Alright, I'll call him once we're home. I can't go on anymore, I'm knackered."

Their eyes met and for a brief second and John thought he saw a guilty fondness in Sherlock's eyes.

"And you will stay with us tonight." The detective said it firmly to his ex-nurse.

"What? No, I can't! Just drop me at my flat. I'll be fine for another night."

"There is a 'kill me' sign painted on your forehead. Forgive me if I wrongly presumed that you'd be more willing to save your life than indulging yourself with the hopelessly stupid sentimentality that within the comfort of your own flat nothing could touch you."

Sherlock was agitated, almost angry. Alarm bell started to ring within John's head. And before Natalie could protest again, John interrupted.

"Sherlock is right, Natalie."

"Of course, I am."

John rolled his eyes but continued on, "You're not safe at all. It's just a matter of one night. So, please?"

Natalie huffed in annoyance but gave in.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

They offered her John's bedroom, upstairs.

"Are you sure? I mean I can totally take the couch." She was clearly hesitating, but after receiving kind reassurance and a smile from John and a dismissive hand gesture from Sherlock, she bid them goodnight and retired upstairs.

John dropped his smile and sprawled over the couch immediately. Boy, was he tired!

Sherlock, who was perched on his own chair, was shooting him surreptitious glances. John chose to ignore them, knowing that the question would come flying anytime now.

"Have you called Mycroft?"

 _Damnit._ "Must I?"

"I already said-"

"Yeah, okay, I know what you said. I haven't forgotten _anything_ you said to me today. I'm calling him alright? Jesus." John's snapped without really intending to.

"John I-" Sherlock sounded mildly guilty.

But John wasn't ready, so he made a show of calling the Elder Git. The Younger Git got the point.

"Dr. Watson, what a surprise." The bland drawl sounded anything but surprised.

"Really Mycroft? 11 at night and you're still a ponce? Don't you ever rest?"

"Well, I'm always at your service, _John._ " Came the snark but then a sigh followed. "So, what has my dear brother done this time?"

"We need a ride to Scotland tomorrow morning."

"Oh? Is this related to the case Sherlock is currently investigating?"

"Yeah."

"And pray tell what brings Scotland into the picture?"

John bristled at the tone and considered cutting the call. But on a second thought, he thought it might not be a bad idea letting Mycroft know a bit. At least, he would feel better knowing that Mycroft would keep Sherlock safe if anything happened.

"Natalie is one of the targets. Her family is in Scotland."

"You mean Sherlock's personal nurse at the rehab?"

"Yeah."

"And why you two need to visit her family?"

Yeah, this was a bad idea, because there was so much a man could bear. "You know what, badger your brother with your questions. I'm sure he'll be ecstatic. My job was to ask for a car. I've done that. Have a goodnight."

John cut the call with all his might. He rubbed his temple in an effort to soothe his throbbing head. God, he needed a soak and some pain killers.

"Why did you inform Mycroft about the case?"

Of course, there was still Sherlock and his accusation to face. And he did face it the only way he could think of at the moment. He lashed out.

"I'm not your PA or your butler! You don't get to boss me around, Sherlock. Don't like the way I handle things? Next time do it yourself. I'm not bound to answer you." He turned towards the bathroom, then threw over his shoulder, "I'm not even your friend," and walked away.

He strained to hear whether Sherlock was calling him. When nothing came, he slammed the bathroom door shut.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John knew he was acting like a prat, but he was hurting too. Mentally as well as physically. He head was aching like fuck; limbs were refusing to move. There was a dull niggling pain in his shoulder wound, and he couldn't make himself feel guilty even though he knew he should.

After revelling in the warmth of the hot shower and towel drying his still aching body, he realized he had forgotten to bring his change of clothes with him, which was still on the couch. Groaning, he wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door.

Sherlock was standing there, just outside the door, clutching John's clothes and fidgeting.

John melted at the sight.

"You forgot these." Sherlock thrust the grey track pants and the black holey-and-comfy t-shirt at John.

"Sherlock-"

But Sherlock was already walking towards the couch and talking, "You take the bed, in my bedroom that is, and I'll take the couch."

John hobbled after him while putting on his clothes.

"Sherlock-"

"Sleep is out of question tonight. I don't sleep during cases, but you know that already."

He was babbling and pacing and avoiding John's eyes.

"I'll just lie down a bit. What time Mycroft will send the car? Hmm, maybe I will arrange some data-"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock stopped abruptly, holding a newspaper which he was moving from the couch to...somewhere.

"Sherlock?" John stepped closer. Sherlock didn't answer, didn't turn back. John closed the gap between them and hugged his boyfriend from behind.

"I'm sorry that I yelled at you."

"I don't understand."

"What you don't understand?" Voice muffled as John buried his face in between Sherlock's shoulder blades, inhaling him deeply.

"I merely stated a fact. Why did you become so upset?"

The question cut through the fluffy could that had begun to surround John.

"You meant what you said?"

"Of course, I did."

Feeling John retracting his hands Sherlock captured the one that was resting above his heart and squeezed it.

"I don't have friends, John. I only have one. I have you."

There was a long silence in which both of them stood still, wrapped around each other, soaking in the confession and commitment. Then John moved towards the bedroom, tugging Sherlock along with him.

"Come on, you need to lie down."

"What? No, I don't need to. And I told you to take the bed."

"Can't we both have the bed?"

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

When John asked his boyfriend to share the bed he had other ideas. Not this. And 'this' being Sherlock lying rigidly on the left side of the bed, facing the wall, away from John. An awkward silence hung between them.

John bit his lower lip and started chewing, as if he could squeeze some ideas out of it.

"So, um, Scotland, huh?"

"Yes, yes, it is."

"Uh, have I told you how brilliant you look when you do your deduction thing. You look beautiful. And when you start-"

"John?"

Sherlock had turned and was lying on his back now. There was something in his voice that made John stammer out a "Y-yes?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"Oh God, yes."

This was the first time Sherlock initiated a kiss. He was shamelessly demanding of them but never _initiated_ any physical intimacy before. John was ecstatic, to say the least.

The kiss was tentative, hesitant, shy. So unlike Sherlock.

It was a mere brush of lips. It was mind-numbingly intense.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and pressed his lips on John's. Before John could kiss back, could deepen it, Sherlock pulled away, looking at John with his huge silvery eyes.

John cupped his jaw, thumb tracing that sharp, chiselled cheekbone. An errant curl was hanging over that smooth pale forehead. John tucked it with the fondness of a lover. Sherlock pressed his face on John's palm.

"Why did you fight for me?" Like his kiss Sherlock's voice was also uncertain.

John couldn't guess as to what fight Sherlock was referring to but he felt that that didn't matter.

"I'll always fight for you, whether you want me or not."

Sherlock leaned in and bit John's nose playfully. "I want you to. But that was completely unnecessary. Those words don't affect me…..anymore."

Ah, so _that_ fight. And the added 'anymore' wasn't lost on John, too.

"So, you consider yourself a 'freak' by choice, then?"

"I deduced and came to that conclusion."

"Based on what data?"

Sherlock just blinked at him without answering, dipped his head to steal another kiss. John let him but stuck on the topic.

"What data, Sherlock?" He asked again, lifting his hand to card his fingers through that curly mess. When Sherlock made an irritated sound for failing to distract, John answered it for his boyfriend. "Based on her words. Their words."

Sherlock just scowled but didn't deny, and John continued, fingers trailing down that jaw-line.

"I'm not sorry for what I said to that foul woman. Yeah, sure, I wasn't going to get physically aggressive or anything, unless she aimed a gun at you, mind. But nobody- and I mean it- _nobody_ is allowed to call my boyfriend anything other than," John paused to guide Sherlock's lips over his own for a brief kiss- "brilliant"- kiss- "amazing"- kiss- "clever"-kiss- "extraordinary"-kiss- "sexy"-kiss- "prat"-kiss- "git"- a bite on the tip of the nose- "and Sherlock bloody Holmes. And if anyone has a problem with the way I defend the love of my life,"- kiss again- "they can happily fuck off."

"Very eloquent."

Sherlock almost dived in to kiss John this time.

Nothing was tender about this kiss. It was like a battle for dominance. Lips met lips with a bruising force; teeth clanked with the contact. Entwined tongues pushed and fought for conquering each others' burning mouth.

John fisted his hands on the back of Sherlock's pajama top, pressing the long lithe body to himself more tightly, wanting to touch more, feel more, taste more.

Sherlock whimpered and moaned and John swallowed every sound greedily. Then he pulled away from the kiss and began to leave wet trail along that delicate porcelain jaw. He bit and sucked on a soft earlobe, making Sherlock moan more loudly.

Sherlock was going limper with every kiss, suck and bite, John could feel it. He was also aware of the hardness that was poking his inner thigh through Sherlock's flimsy pajama bottoms. John gave it a rub with his thigh and grinned when Sherlock rasped out a breathy "John!"

"You like that, love? You want that? Let's have some more, then." With that he turned them around, so that he was now on top of Sherlock, and promptly captured that plump bottom lip in between his teeth and sucked on it while positioning them, pelvis to pelvis; their raging erections touched each other through the clothes. The friction it caused was delicious. John groaned in arousal and gave a playful grind. Sherlock cried out.

"John-"

"Sh, sh, sh, it's okay, I've got you baby. We have a guest tonight, remember? We don't want to freak her out now, do we?" Another grind followed it.

"Nnng-no."

"No, no we don't."

John renewed the kiss more fervently. Sherlock snaked his arms around the body above his, thus trapping John. And he squeaked in surprise when subtle fingers tweaked his nipples over the shirt. John smiled at the reaction and repeated the move. Sherlock squeaked again.

John, then, abandoned his assault on the nipples only to move on to the buttons of Sherlock's pajama top. His boyfriend was overdressed for the occasion and John couldn't have that. It took all of his self control not to yank the clothing out of his way. Every opened button exposed a bit more skin which John laved quite eagerly. He latched on a rosy nipple the moment it came into view, sucking and prodding it with his tongue to hardness. Sherlock arched his back, nails digging deeper into John's back. On a particular suck and bite, Sherlock jerked upwards, thrusting his cock to John's.

That was the final straw for John.

He pulled away and stared at the writhing body under him. His Sherlock. His gorgeous, whining, very aroused boyfriend. His lover.

 _Fuck slow and sensual. Time to speed things up._

"May I?" John's finger rested on Sherlock's waistband.

It took awfully long for Sherlock to open his eyes and respond, "But I- I...never be-before..."

"It's okay, it's alright, love. I'm here, I've got you. We won't do anything you're not comfortable with, alright? And we can- we can stop anytime, right now, if you want to. Though I'd like to carry on very much, so, don't get me wrong, but you can totally, you know, shove me off or- or-"

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You talk too much."

"Cheeky."

John sat up and took his t-shirt off in record time before he did the same with Sherlock's pajama bottoms.

Sherlock's cock looked delicious, just like the rest of him. It wasn't anything out of a porn advert or hung like a horse or something equally ridiculous, but it was Sherlock's, so for John it was the best cock he had ever laid his eyes on.

John's heart soared with ecstatic joy. This was it. Months of pining, longing, wanting would end here. This was his Sherlock with all his inexperience, vulnerability, want, arousal and his addictive presence. And he was letting John be the first person ever to see him like this. All for John's to have, to love, to cherish, to protect.

John's Sherlock. Sherlock's John.

"So beautiful."

Sherlock's face was flushed. He bit his lip and reached for John who caught the hand immediately and linked their fingers together, kissing his knuckles.

"You are my world, Sherlock, my home."

"John."

John smiled at him. It seemed his name was the only thing Sherlock was being capable of uttering.

"Please let me love you."

Sherlock just tugged their linked hands as his answer.

John started his kissing trail from Sherlock's forehead. Then two eyelids...tip of the nose...both cheeks...lips...chin...the smooth long throat...collarbone...two pink nipples...chest...stomach...that deep naval...the trail of dark coarse hair that ended on that thick patch of pubes...the base of that delectable cock...the expanse of the shaft...and finally his lips stopped at the glistening tip where a bead of pre-come was gleaming.

Above him Sherlock thrashed, arching his back and neck, mumbling incoherent words. Sensing the loss of contact he opened his eyes and tried to prop himself up on his elbows to see why the hell John's lips were not on his cock.

"May I?" John licked that drop of pre-come, mainly to see Sherlock's reaction who flopped down again immediately, thrusting his hip upwards. The message was clear. John enveloped the head with his warm mouth.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock was floating around on an astral plane because _that_ could never be Earthly. The moment John swallowed his cock his mind went completely blank. John always managed to have that kind of effect on Sherlock, but _this_ sensation was unparalleled.

This was the first time he had let anybody see him like this. But John wasn't just seeing him. He was unravelling him. Shedding him off his layers with which he had protected himself so far. And honestly, if he had any idea that the act of fellating could feel like this then he would have demanded one from John as soon as he came to that rehab.

"Ah, ahh, ohhh...John.." Sherlock moaned as John gave a particularly hard and mind numbing suck, lapping his glans with that supple and wicked tongue and stroking the base of his cock with his hand. Sherlock let his fingers through John's soft golden strands and gripped them tightly when John hummed. That seemed to encourage John as his eagerness doubled (as if that was even possible), and he felt a wet tongue circling his urethra.

Sherlock's whole body began to tremble. He was close. Very close.

"John- John, please, John- I'm- I think I'm gonna.."

John pulled away looking up. His eyes were wild, lust filled and glazed over. Lips glistening with saliva and pre-come. Sherlock shivered at the sight.

"Then come for me, love."

Sherlock would have done exactly that, then and there, if not for the more pressing need he felt at that moment.

"N-not like this. Together. With you. Want to touch you. T-together, John."

It was very difficult for him to produce something coherent at this point, but he managed somehow, panting and stammering.

John hesitated and Sherlock feared that he wasn't going to agree. He took the cock once again, swallowing more than the half of it, gave it a long and languid suck, pulled away with a wet pop and said, "Okay."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John got up to undress. Finally. His erection was dripping and aching painfully from the lack of any attention. He didn't mind, though. This was about Sherlock. It was his first time and John would do anything to make it perfect for him. He looked at Sherlock and gave his own cock a long slow pull from base to head, without averting his eyes from Sherlock whose widened eyes were glued to his cock.

"Come here, please. I want to touch you." Sherlock pleaded.

John grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him forward, making him sit up, and almost straddling John's lap.

"Here, touch it, yeah, like that.. ahh, yes!"

Sherlock's long slender fingers wrapped around John's cock hesitatingly, and John groaned in pleasure. "Oh God, yes." The cock twitched in Sherlock's hold and he began to stroke it slowly. John leaned back, palms flat on the bed, pushing his cock in Sherlock's grip; eyes screwed shut, moaning.

It went for a couple of minutes until John croaked out, "Wait wait wait, no more, love, please stop."

Sherlock stilled immediately. "Did I do something...wrong?"

"No no no, not at all! You've done it so good that a moment more and I'm gonna spill all over your hand."

"But don't you want to?"

"Yes, I do, but with you."

He pulled Sherlock more to himself so that they could wrap their legs around each other. John cupped Sherlock's face with both hands and brought their foreheads together.

"We will do this together, Sherlock. Just the way you want. We both want."

John lined their cocks together and wrapped his hand around them and began to wank. Sherlock bit his lip viciously and watched with hooded eyes. The heat and the skin on skin friction were too intense to bear.

There wasn't any lube as this wasn't exactly planned. But the copious amount of pre-come both of them dripping was enough to smoothen the pushing and pulling.

Base to head, long and slow; a thumb swipe over both of the soaking slits, then head to base back again, with a slight twist of the wrist to keep the moaning going.

Sherlock clutched John with all his might, chest to chest, face buried in the crook of John's neck, biting the soft skin for stopping himself from screaming out.

John, on the other hand, littered Sherlock's pale neck with love bites, sucking and soothing that sensitive spot behind the ears. Murmuring 'I love you's. His left hand was working with a frantic speed now.

With one upward twist, Sherlock came undone, convulsing and chanting John's name. John followed right after, Sherlock's spilled come triggering his own release.

Neither of them could utter anything for a long time. They panted and tried to calm their erratic heartbeats. John was the first one to pull away, but not entirely. Just enough to look at Sherlock, whose eyes were still closed.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock squeezed shut his eyes more tightly but didn't answer.

"Hey love, look at me, what is it? Is- is something wrong?" John's senses were shutting down, lulling him to sleep, but he needed to make sure that his boyfriend was alright.

"I... John, I-" Sherlock looked pained, almost afraid. John wanted to hold him and soothe his every worry. And more particularly he wanted to assure him that he understood his unspoken words.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I know, I know you do. And I love you too. I love you more."

"Thank you." Sherlock looked at him at last and said it in a whisper after a long pause.

John smoothed out the damp curls which were sticking to his forehead and chuckled, "for what? For being the luckiest bastard in the world to have you? Then, I should thank _you_." And when Sherlock opened his mouth, John promptly latched his own mouth on it and stole a passionate kiss before getting up to bring a wash cloth.

They slumped back on the bed. Sweaty, tangled, boneless, sated and very, very much in love.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Mycroft sent the car at six bloody AM. That bastard.

Sherlock was a cuddler and John had one hell of a time managing to spoon that bony clingy koala. When the furious banging started on their door, Sherlock whined and snuggled closer to John's chest, tightening his grip around his boyfriend. John chose to ignore the crazy thumping and nuzzled back. This went until they heard-

"Boys!" -bang bang bang- "Sherlock! Come out right now. I won't stand this anymore. I'm old, I have a hip problem and need my rest. John! Get here this instant, young man!"

John sprang up from the bed and frantically started searching for his clothes, while Sherlock kept whining for the loss of warmth.

"Mrs. Hudson? What is it?" John spoke urgently after opening the door, blinking his bleary eyes, wrapping Sherlock's blue dressing gown around himself.

"What is it? There is a damn car waiting- ooh, isn't that Sherlock's?" She eyed the dressing gown with open mirth and winked at John before continuing, "A car is waiting for you downstairs. That giant of a driver was trying to knock down the main door! And I had to get up at six am! Six, John, to answer it! Whatever happened to your bell?"

John gaped at their yelling landlady, trying to understand what the fuck was actually happening. _Car? Did Mycroft send the car at this hour?! The hell- Wait, bell?_ His mind halted at the mention of the bell.

"Bell? Oh! Oh, yes, Sherlock had put it in the fridge. But don't worry, I've scolded him already. He'll put.. it.. baaack…." He trailed off as Mrs. Hudson looked on the verge of exploding.

"Young man, you two need to sort out which things should go in the fridge, which not. I won't stand it. I am your landlady, not your housekeeper!"

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson." John tried to look sheepish and chastised to please her. "Um, you said the driver was at the door, where is he now?"

"Oh, I have invited him for a cuppa."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Natalie was already up when John went to knock on her door, right after Mrs. Hudson left. And finally when the three of them got in the car it was almost 7:30.

Natalie looked chipper than last night. She had a phone conversation with her cousin, aunt's son, last night, and while she didn't disclose the situation, the conversation seemed to satisfy her for now, uplifting her mood.

"Sooo, guys, how was last night? Had fun?" She wiggled her brows at them who were sitting opposite her.

John felt his face flame immediately. But Sherlock sounded bored when he drawled, "no need to look so flustered, John. She is trying to trick us. She did not hear anything."

"Oh yeah? And how do you know that?" Natalie chuckled.

"Because I can't hear John when he masturbates if the doors are closed."

Natalie burst out laughing. John looked as if someone had told him he was pregnant.

"Thanks a bunch, Sherlock!"

"Oh, don't mention it."

* * *

~0~0~0~


	12. Chapter 12 Showtime

**Hey, my lovelies,**

 **Here is a new chapter. The case comes to an end at last. Writing cases is not my forte and I've struggled with this, to say the least. So, please be gentle when the case turns out to be bland. You'll find a few new OCs in this chapter. Yeah, I like my ship crowded! Anyway, there will be action, emotion, exasperation etc. etc. Hope you'll enjoy this massive 8k chapter.**

 **It will be a while till I update next as I am still editing the next chapter/s.**

 **To, Nauss, Raven, Sandylee and Ladytokyo: A huge thanks to all of you for leaving those amazing and positive reviews. Your words help me to go on, and they provide me different views of my stories which are brilliant. I love you all.**

 **Jawn plushies for those who are reading, following and favouring this story.**

 **Enjoy the read!**

* * *

 **"** **Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness**

 **I need to calculate**

 **What creates my own madness**

 **And I'm addicted to your punishment"**

 **-"Getting Away With Murder"** by **Papa Roach**

* * *

No one- and John meant it as an umbrella term to include aliens and politicians too- _no one_ should be cooped up with Sherlock for five hours in a car. No one. Period.

At first, it was alright. Well, as alright as revealing John's masturbating habit could be. But still. Then, after barely thirty minutes, Sherlock's foot-tapping started. Then came the insults in the guise of deduction...or vice versa. And John made the fatal mistake of changing his seat from Sherlock's side to Natalie's.

All hell broke loose after that.

At one point, Natalie whispered, when Sherlock was busy tormenting the driver, to John, "Do you mind if I kill your boyfriend?"

"Be my guest and save me the trouble."

"You're the best, John."

Sherlock heard _that_.

John _had_ to change seats again and sat by Sherlock.

For the rest of the journey, Sherlock spent almost straddling John, glaring at everyone, including the man on whose lap he was sitting.

It was cloudy and gloomy when they reached St. Andrews, doing wonders to Sherlock's already cranky mood. John was sure the driver had been brain damaged permanently by now. However, they finally stood in front of the Lewis household and knocked. Ronald Lewis, Natalie's Uncle, was a tall, plump man with a bald head and a kind and amiable face. It was a bit strange to see how jovially he welcomed his niece and two complete strangers to his house, one of whom was scowling like a cantankerous owl.

After a brief customary introduction, in which John gave one of his melting smile and Sherlock just "mph'd", and after Natalie confirmed about her brother, they were taken to a warm, cozy sitting room. A tall woman stood there with a stern face and a carefully engineered blank expression. Mr. Lewis introduced her as his wife, Margaret Lewis.

"Last night some policemen came from the local police department and appointed two guards in the front. I asked them the reason but they said that the order came from the New Scotland Yard. And then Natalie said last night that she's going to explain things today. Are we in some kind of trouble?" Mr. Lewis asked as soon as they all were seated.

"Are you in trouble or are you _the_ trouble that depends upon what I'd find after I have all my answers."

 _Oh God, not again._ John hid his face behind the palms of his hands and rubbed it. Mr. Lewis, surprisingly, didn't throw them out promptly. He just looked at three of them with a perplexed expression. Mrs. Lewis, however, bore a hole on Sherlock's face with her disdainful stare.

"So, what is it you wanted to know, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, coming straight to the point. Sherlock looked mildly impressed to see someone _not_ willing to waste time.

"About Natalie's father."

A flicker of surprise crossed her face and her eyes darted towards Natalie. But when she answered Sherlock, her tone was flat, "And may we know why you are enquiring about such personal information?"

"Of course. I'm currently investigating a case-"

"With the NSY." John added quickly and earned himself a withering glare from his boyfriend. But John knew the information would help them to handle the Lewises better.

"It seems that your niece and nephew are in mortal peril. Natalie can fill you in with the additional details about the case. Now, if you are concerned about their wellbeing, then cooperate with the investigation."

There was a long silence in which these two stared at each other. The scene reminded John of a show in Animal Planet, where two lions were circling each other before attacking.

"I'm afraid I cannot be of any help on that matter, as I know nothing about him."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Ah, is that so? Well then, tell us about the man your sister had worked for."

The clench of Mrs. Lewis's jaw was visible. "I won't be able to provide much information on that too."

"Anything would be fine."

Sherlock sounded so supportive that John braced himself for a roller coaster ride. Beside John, Natalie stirred, probably to say something, but John gave a soft pat on her hand, indicating not to say anything right now.

Margaret Lewis regarded Sherlock for a moment long before saying, "My sister took a job of a PA for a business entrepreneur in London, a few months after she moved there. She worked very hard and didn't get much time off. And according to my sister, he was a good employer."

When even after almost a minute she didn't add anything else, Sherlock asked, "Is that all you are going to tell us?"

"That's all I know."

"Are you sure about that?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"What I mean is impertinent here," Sherlock made a dismissive hand gesture, "what _you_ mean is of utmost importance. And when you say that you do not know anything else, do you mean to say that you don't know about the affair your sister was having with her employer? Or do you mean that you don't know that he refused to take the responsibility after she became pregnant with his children?"

Natalie let out a gasp.

"Oh Lord!" Mr. Lewis flopped back.

"How did you get this information, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have my methods, Mrs. Lewis."

John dared not to avert his eyes from Mrs. Lewis, who kept looking at Sherlock with a bland expression, but her eyes betrayed her.

"Marge, I think you should tell them." Ronald Lewis' quiet voice broke the silence first.

"Tell us? Tell us what? That you two knew all along? That you intentionally kept me and Freddie in the dark about our father?" Natalie's voice shook while speaking. She was leaning forward, almost on the edge of the sofa they sat. An accusing and hurt expression adorned her face.

"We did what was best for you, Annie. Do not accuse us for loving you."

Even now, Margaret didn't budge from her place. _One hell of a strong woman_ , John thought.

"Why Auntie? I begged you once to tell me about our father. And you- you just kept telling us lies? Why?"

"Because I made a promise to your mother; she never wanted you to know about him."

"What? Why? Why did Mum do that to us?"

"Because your father refused to accept you and your brother." Sherlock butted in. It was a miracle that he kept quiet for this long. "He was already married when he began his affair with your mother, and feared that this scandal would ruin his public profile, as I'm quite certain he is a notable figure of our elite society."

"You knew too? Sherlock, you...- and you, John?" She turned to him, "Did you know too?"

Before John could even open his mouth, Sherlock asked, "And what if John knew? Even if John knew, why do you think he would have told you when I clearly didn't want you to know? Do not delude yourself thinking that you are more imp-"

John grabbed Sherlock's elbow as subtly as he could manage in a room where everyone's eyes were on him, and shook his head furiously at the jealous git. Sherlock pursed his lips and then pulled them in a grimace, but didn't finish the sentence.

 _Thank fuck,_ though John.

"However, if you are done with your miserable sniffling and dodgy sentimentalities, for now of course, can I continue with the investigation, which was the actual reason we came here for?"

 _Or not._ John looked at all the horrified faces and scratched his forehead.

"Now, shall I be the one to fill in the gaps or you'll finally decide to contribute in the investigation to save the lives of those you so claim to love?"

The barbed question was directed at Margaret who continued to look at Sherlock with a disgusted face. Sherlock, on his part, returned the gesture happily. John just wanted to get himself and Sherlock out and away from the room. No matter how much he wanted to know the story, an angry Sherlock was something he didn't want to deal with right now.

"No, not you, no. I want to hear it from her." Surprisingly, Natalie sounded unruffled by Sherlock's antics. Her eyes were locked with her Aunt now.

John never released his hold on Sherlock's elbow entirely. He tightened his grip again. The message was clear- _let them do this_. And John thanked his luck when Sherlock didn't explode immediately.

"You have heard your _friend._ Everything he has said is true. What more can I tell you?" That woman's calmness was unnerving.

"What mo- what more can you tell me? You're seriously telling me this? My God! Who are you? I can't even-" Natalie took a deep breath to calm her shaking. "Care to tell me why the hell you sat on the truth for so long? And please don't give me any shit about promises and duties."

"Annie, please don't blame her-" But Mr. Lewis was cut off by her wife.

"My promise to my dying sister may seem meaningless to you, but don't you dare judge me based on poorly formed ideologies. I am not you, therefore, I will not be held responsible for acting according to my own opinion and judgements. It was your mother's wish never to tell you two about your father. A father who refused every responsibility regarding parentage; who wanted to compensate that cowardice by offering some kind of monthly monetary allowances for his own and _only_ children. Yes, only. Don't look so shocked. You wanted to know the truth, Annie, didn't you? Then you will receive the truth." She directed her gaze to Sherlock now; the previous disgust was gone. "Your information is absolutely correct, Mr. Holmes. Pardon me for not co-operating with you, as my loyalty towards my little sister didn't let me break the promise. But, now I cannot and will not keep it any longer if it means to save my children's lives." She squeezed back the hand that was now covering her. "The affair began quickly after Olivia took the job. She hid it from us initially. But When I came to know about it, I tried to make her see sense. He was rich, married and several years older than my sister. I know a doomed relationship when I see one, and I knew this would bring only misery for her. That's exactly what happened when she told him about the babies. He refused to give them his name. But offered Olivia monetary help. As an excuse, he said that it was impossible for him to divorce his wife, as according to their pre-nuptial agreement, he'd have to give her a huge amount of his property if the divorce was proposed from his end. My sister was shattered after that; she had to quit her job. She even thought of...abortion." Her eyes darted towards her niece before returning to Sherlock again, "But I- we didn't let her do it. She gave birth in a private medical facility in London. After that, she moved in here with us. That hateful man tried to contact her, and still had the audacity to tell her that he was _willing_ to start a trust fund for the babies but my sister refused to take anything. After a few years-Annie and Freddie were around three at that time- we came to know that the wife had died in an accident. Olivia, naive as she was, let herself hope that she and children would be accepted now. She went back, got rejected again, lost her hope at last and moved in with us once again. Three years later she was diagnosed with cancer...and you know the rest. We, I and Ronald, adopted the kids after her death."

Natalie was crying silently, if her shaky breath was anything to go by. John lifted his hand to comfort her but didn't get the chance.

"Although I cannot pretend I understand your reason for not mentioning the man's name even once, sentiments probably, but I need a definite identity. Oh, and also I- I offer you my..uh...sympathy." He looked at John smugly, _See, I am behaving._

"Edward C. Milverton." Mr. Lewis answered.

"The one who died five months ago?"

"Yes, that one."

"He died?" All the eyes reverted to Natalie as she spoke for the first time, "H-he ruined Mum's life, abandoned us, cheated on his wife and then he just- he just _died_? That simply?"

"What did you expect? Some avenging angel would descend and make him atone for his sins? This is real li-"

"We should go, we, uh, yes, we should go." Kicking Sherlock wasn't an option now, so John just shouted over him. And he couldn't care less about the foul stare his boyfriend threw at him.

"What? No, of course not! You just got here. Don't even think of leaving before lunch."

John was pretty sure Mr. Lewis was a saint in disguise. People who welcomed them even after facing Sherlock's git-y self at its finest, could never be mere mortals.

"No, we can't delay anymore. The killer won't wait for our lunch to finish."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Solve the case, obviously." Sherlock frowned, couldn't think why Natalie should ask _that_ at this point of time.

"No, I mean, if that man is dead, then it's clearly not him who's trying to kill us. So, what's your plan now?"

"Clearly?" Sherlock gave that iconic Holmes eyebrow arch, "how's is it so clear to you? Why do you think that with his death the chances of someone related to your father harming you would be nil? What if it was his death that triggered this chain of murders?"

Natalie's eyes widened considerably along with everyone else'.

"So, you think it's still Milverton?"

"But how can that be? He's dead!" Then something dawned on John, "unless….someone else is executing his orders. But…..why now? Why after so many years?"

John saw Sherlock smirk. It still sometimes amazed John to see how differently Sherlock treated him from the rest.

"That's the mystery we need to solve, isn't it? I want you all to keep your eyes and ears open. Natalie if anything remotely suspicious happen, do not call John. Call Lestrade, and text me if you must."

"Wait!" Natalie stopped them before they could turn to leave, "I- I just wanted you to meet my brother."

"Why?" Another elbow-nudge from John and it turned into, "Hmph."

"We'd love to meet him, Natalie."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

"Annie!"

Relief washed over Natalie as soon as she heard that voice and saw the face that looked like the Christmas had come early.

"Hi Freddie!"

The smile she received in return was the best smile in the world. Innocent, guileless, free of the masked happiness. It was pure joy. She leaned forward to hug her brother and pecked his cheek.

"How are you, darling?"

"Faa-annn."

"Some friends are here to meet you. Would you like to meet them?"

Freddie gave a smile that broke Natalie's heart a little. He loved to meet new people, but…

She got up, straightened the crooked glasses on his brother's face and pushed the wheelchair so that her brother could face the guests.

"Ready?"

Another heart melting smile followed the eager "Yeeesss".

Natalie asked John and Sherlock to come in. She wasn't sure about how Sherlock would react, but she knew she could count on John.

John entered first and took two seconds to compose his initial shock to see a small boy like figure in a wheelchair instead of a man of twenty three.

"John, Sherlock, this is my brother Fredrick, the best brother in the world." Standing behind the chair, she ruffled her brother's messy dark brown strands.

"Hi." Freddie's voice was small and shy.

"Hello, Fredrick. I'm John and this is Sherlock. And we are very happy to finally meet you."

 _Bless John,_ thought Natalie.

"Hello." Even Sherlock gave a polite nod and a tight smile.

"J- ooon an Sh-Sh 'Lock?"

"That's right. I'm On and he's Lock. And you are Fredrick, aren't you?"

Natalie stifled a laugh. The look on Sherlock's face….priceless!

"I'm Fweddie." Freddie protested for being called Fredrick.

"Ah, Freddie. Yes, yes, of course! Sorry, my bad. Oh, so you like Space?" John said once he became aware of the room filled with many Space related objects and posters.

"Yess, vewy mu- uch."

"'Like' hardly does the justice to what Freddie feels about Space. He's a total maniac about it. Aren't you?"

Freddie grinned at John. He would have turned to his sister too, if he could.

"D'you know Lock is crazy about this Space stuff too?" John said to Freddie then looked at his boyfriend, eyebrows wigging, "Aren't you, _Lock_?"

Sherlock looked like he had swallowed a lemon. "That was particularly a low blow, John." He came forward and stood beside John now, "You don't like doctors much, do you, Freddie?" Sherlock's smile looked ominous.

Freddie shook his head as furiously as his disabled body would allow, "no, no, dok-tos aaw baaaad. Nooo-oooo."

"Well, John is a doctor, aren't you, John?" Sherlock looked irritatingly smug.

John closed his eyes and shook his head, then looked at Freddie guiltily who was looking at him questioningly.

"Yes, that's right. I'm a doctor, yes. But I only treat cold and flu and stomach bugs. And my only patient is this one, this Lock."

"Weelly?" Freddie asked hopefully.

"Yes, really. Ask him. Am I not your doctor, _Lock_?"

"Yes, that's absolutely right!" Natalie happily chirped in.

The confirmation from his sister satisfied Freddie thoroughly and he smiled happily.

Sherlock stomped his way to the window to look outside.

Natalie arched an eyebrow to John. John quietly shook his head and mouthed, "Let him sulk for now."

"So Freddie, what's the best thing about Space?" John dragged a chair to sit, and Freddie started to talk with his slurred speech and the few restricted movements his hands could perform, too happy to find someone willing to spend time with him.

Natalie looked at the duo with a sad affection, still standing behind his brother's chair. _If only..._

She could feel eyes on her. She lifted her head to meet Sherlock's eyes.

They stared at each other before Natalie went over to stand beside him.

They didn't start talking immediately.

"Cerebral Palsy."

It wasn't a question, so Natalie just "mmhm'd"

"Spastic?"

"Yes."

"Since birth?"

"No, he was slow from the beginning but not like this. Diagnosed later...when we were around four or five, perhaps."

"Hmm."

Silence stretched on.

"You don't share, do you?" She asked suddenly, looking over the window.

"No." Sherlock didn't turn to look at her. "He is mine, Natalie. Don't make foolish mistakes."

"Even if I ignore the fact that John doesn't have eyes for anyone else but you, then also it won't work. We are too similar."

"No, you are not. Nobody can be like him. He is unique."

Natalie chose not to answer that.

"Do you harbour romantic feelings for John?" Sherlock's voice sounded stilted.

Natalie turned around. John was holding a book and nodding very solemnly while Freddie explained things with his broken speech.

"Don't we all wish to have a John in our lives? A John to lean on when the burden is too heavy? A John who won't judge us for being who we are?"

Sherlock had also turned around at some point. He regarded her for a long moment before directing his eyes to John. "Yes, I...think we do."

"I like John." Natalie mused and saw Sherlock's shoulder tense up instantly. She suppressed a chuckle, "But it's not romantic. I guess I like the idea of having someone like John in my life. But it's not necessarily John. Someone like him. Strong, reliable, loyal. Someone who won't mind spending time with Freddie. Who won't pity him." She had to pause. Freddie was positively glowing with happiness. Oblivious to the fact that a killer was lurking somewhere to wipe that smile forever. A killer hired by their own father, most likely. "But Sherlock, I'm not a threat."

"I never thought you were." Although, he couldn't cloak the little uncertainly with the imposed incredulity.

She snorted.

John looked at them, raising his brows questioningly. Natalie just smiled and shook her head. John turned his attention back to Freddie once again.

"What if he finds someone better?" Sherlock's voice sounded quite.

The question took Natalie completely off guard. She knew Sherlock was insecure but didn't know _this_ was his fear.

"Has he ever hinted something like that to you?"

"Of course not!"

"Do you think he needs someone better?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched and unclenched. "He deserves better."

"He deserves what he wants. What he wants, Sherlock?" Natalie could see the emotions flickering through that handsome face. She also knew that she wouldn't get an answer to that question. So, she decided ask another. "How much he means to you?"

"Enough to sacrifice my reasoning abilities." Came the instant answer.

To others, this may sound weird but Natalie knew Sherlock enough to know that he practically told her that he would give up his life for John. Because, this 'reasoning ability' was the core of Sherlock's being.

"Have you told him that?"

"He knows it."

"Not anyone can deduce like you, prat. And never take your relationships for granted." Ignoring the glare shot at her, she continued, "Sometimes, some words are needed to be spoken aloud even if we know them already. It may sound illogical to you, but we mere mortals need to hear the confirmation of our love, affection every now and then."

Sherlock blinked at her rapidly, and then said, "Oh."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Surprisingly, Freddie was upset to know that 'On' was leaving, and unsurprisingly, his reaction was quite different in case of 'Lock'. While John busied himself convincing Natalie's brother about visiting him soon, Sherlock questioned her cousin, Adam, who had returned home at some point.

Both of them had decided to leave Natalie with her family until the case was solved. Natalie consented somewhat reluctantly. John assured her by promising to talk to Mycroft about her job related problems, which may arise later for her sudden leave.

After their car turned the corner and John waved back to Freddie -who was still at the gate, trying to move his hand in a wave- John heaved a sign and melted into the seat.

Sherlock was silent beside him, but John took it as a boon. They would be cooped up in this car for hours. Again. So, he wouldn't let any chance of enjoying a quite Sherlock go astray. But this silence was short lived, as ten or so minutes later John heard Sherlock asking, "What do you want, John?"

"To eat. I'm starving." He rested one hand over his flat stomach, as if consoling it. He was sure Sherlock was rolling his eyes and would snap at him any moment now.

Perhaps that was why what Sherlock did next left John so stunned.

"Stop the car at the next food joint." Sherlock ordered the driver, and then went back on looking out of the window.

John observed his boyfriend minutely. Now, that he thought about it, that question was rather odd for Sherlock to ask. First off, Sherlock never asked others what they wanted without making the question rhetorical. Secondly, it wasn't linked to anything case related; he genuinely wanted to know what John wanted. So, that meant...it was time to raise the alarm!

John would be a fool if he thought that Sherlock's question was answered by letting him know about his famished stomach. No, this question wasn't momentary or impulsive. It was deep-rooted, thus demanding an answer of equal depth. And everything pointed at only one direction- Sherlock was having an emotional dilemma. About John. In the middle of a case.

 _Oh Boy._

But should he probe him about it now? Or would it be better to give him time to sort things out by himself? Nope, definitely not a good idea. The brat had the knack of misinterpreting everything where emotion was involved. What if he was having doubts over John's love for him?

John rested a tentative hand on Sherlock's gloved one, still not sure how to intrude the topic.

The car stopped in front of a small pub.

Sherlock was startled, though whether from the touch or the sudden halt, John couldn't tell. But he couldn't let the tension brew within Sherlock's overactive brain. He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's jacket before he could get out and brought their mouths together.

The kiss was brief, forceful, intense and assuring. John didn't go deeper and Sherlock was too surprised to do anything. They pulled apart after a few seconds.

"Why?"

It always broke John's heart a little to see how Sherlock could never grasp the idea of someone, even John, showing their affection without any particular reason.

"I love you, that's why."

He kissed Sherlock once more before gesturing him to get out of the car.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock made a number of phone calls after they returned to Baker Street. None to his brother or Greg, and John heard the word 'solicitor' more than once. Then Sherlock started fiddling with his laptop and John snoozed in his red chair.

Dinner consisted of a simple chicken soup and bread, with a delicious pudding (thanks to Mrs. Hudson, bless her). John had to strangle Sherlock in order to feed him. This was Sherlock's newest whim; he refused to eat while at home, _unless_ John fed him. John tried not to cater to this whim but the process would go like this: John would set the plates and serve the food which Sherlock would never touch, and open his mouth when John prepared to take his first bite. Now, what was John supposed to do if not feed that adorably incorrigible git?

And to be honest, John cherished those moments.

"Christ...I want to sleep for a decade." John declared after doing the dishes and waited for any response (or any grunt). When none came, he added, "I'm going to bed, love" and looked at Sherlock's back who just kept shaking his head and muttered on, God knew what. John signed and smiled affectionately. He wanted Sherlock to solve this case without any further damage, not only because of Natalie and Freddie, but also because he wanted the world to know how wonderful his Sherlock was. He went to their bedroom, hugged Sherlock's pillow, inhaled deeply and let the sleep take him away.

At some point in the night, John felt two arms wrapped around him and a cold body pressed against from behind. Despite those bloody freezing feet, John smiled sleepily and snuggled closer.

In the morning, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

 ** _"_** ** _Where're you?"- JW_**

 ** _"_** ** _Out." –SH_**

 ** _"_** ** _WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? Been waiting for you for hours and worrying sick. You didn't even bother to wake me up before leaving?!" –JW_**

 ** _"_** ** _You said you wanted to sleep." –SH_**

John stared at the screen. He should have asked Sherlock what was going on. Should have coaxed him. Suddenly, that question in the car felt ominous.

 ** _"_** ** _Where are you? Are you safe? When will you be home? Do you need me with you?"-JW_**

Sherlock took his time to reply. Meanwhile, John tried to calm himself down. _He's just busy, that's why. Not because he's in any trouble. He's fine. He'll reply soon._

 ** _"_** ** _I'm done here. On my way to home." –SH_**

Another text came while John was reading the previous one.

 ** _"_** ** _I will always need you." –SH_**

Yes, something was definitely wrong.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock filled John in about the proceedings of the case after reaching home. He went to visit Milverton's solicitor but the law farm informed him that he was out of the country now and couldn't be contacted. Sherlock tried to 'convince' them but they made such a fuss that Sherlock _saw himself out_.

John hid a chuckle. Sherlock shot him a death glare.

"And then?"

"Then my pompous arse of a brother called me to gloat about the fact that he could contact the solicitor within a minute, if only I ask him to." Sherlock almost spat the words.

"And I presume you told him to fuck off?"

Sherlock scowled. "No. I thought you would be happy if I accepted Mycroft's _offer_ regarding this case."

John made a duck face, clearly fighting to hide a full blown laugh. Sherlock wanted to punch him. Then snog him senseless.

"I'm very happy, love, that you sacrificed your ego and decided to be a wise man. Very happy indeed."

"John." He hoped that his voice conveyed the warning properly. "However, we have to go now, so if you are done with your mocking, we can leave immediately

"Leave for where?"

"Milverton Manor, of course! Where else?"

"What? But, he's dead, isn't he? And what did the solicitor say?"

"That he has been threatened, too, and had faced an attack before he removed himself from this country."

"Attacked? By whom? Don't tell me Natalie's father tried to kill his own solicitor!"

"There's a will, John. A will where late Edward Milverton has left eighty percent of his property to his children whom he "fathered out of wedlock with Olivia Shaw."

Sherlock watched John's eyes went saucer-sized. "Eighty percent?! Holy shit! That old bastard didn't bat an eye before leaving his kids to rot and now he left them his property?! Did he experience any Christmas Carol-y thing before dying?"

Sherlock tapped his foot and watched his boyfriend muttering all these ridiculously meaningless things, completely forgetting the most interesting-

"Hang on!"

 _Finally!_ Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So, if he left property to them then surely he wasn't the one tried to kill. Then...who?"

"His nephew, Charles Milverton. The sole heir to the Milverton Empire, if not for that will. He tried to get his hands over this will to forge it, and when the solicitor didn't hand it over him, he tried to take it by force."

John worried his lips for a moment. "When did this happen?"

"Two months after Edward Milverton's death, according to the solicitor."

"Hadn't the solicitor tried to contact the police?"

"He didn't have any proof, except for his own words. Every threat was made very carefully and in person. But yes, he lodged an official complaint against the nephew which was rejected after a customary check. Money can cover almost everything, John."

Thought John didn't agree with the last statement but it wasn't the time to bicker. "And this solicitor, why didn't he try to contact Natalie's family?"

"There was nothing to track the twins down except for their names, date of birth and an old address. The solicitor claimed that he tried his best, which I doubt was sufficient enough, to contact the family before leaving the country. And he also claimed that he was very careful not to divulge even those vague details about the twins to Milverton's nephew."

John nodded thoughtfully, "And we are going to arrest this nephew?"

"Yes, after making him confess."

"Have you informed Greg?"

"Mmhm." He didn't want to outright lie to John and was relieved when John didn't seem to catch this lie. He wanted to solve this case by himself. It was _his_ case, and he'd be damned if he let those NSY morons to muck things up.

"Okay, let's go then."

"Take your gun, could be dangerous."

John seemed to protest, but then decided against it and went upstairs where he hid gun.

Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf around his neck and waited for John. He could feel the thrum of excitement in his body.

 _It's showtime._

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Approx fifteen minutes of taxi ride later, they found themselves in one of those multi-million pounds houses in Chelsea. The Milverton Manor. They were shown to a regally decorated sitting room, clearly meant for business clients.

Beside him, John was exceptionally quiet. Sherlock realized that this was John's battle mode. Tapping his foot and pressing one fisted hand against his lips, Sherlock's eyes swept around the room, cataloguing the possible escape routes and vulnerable spots. His deduction told him there would be violence.

The door opened to reveal a tall, blond and very handsome man in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in pinstripes three piece suit. The perfect image of Milverton heir. The man was smiling at him.

"Mr. Holmes, I presume?" Charles Milverton extended his hand towards Sherlock.

"You presume correctly, Mr. Milverton." Sherlock shook the offered hand curtly.

"And you must be his Robin, the sidekick?" The mocking tone was directed at John.

Sherlock openly rolled his eyes. This kind of provocation was really old and boring. And his John was way more intelligent to take the bait.

"Wow, I didn't know we are that famous! Yes, you're right, I'm the sidekick, one and only." John gave a dazzling smile.

Sherlock smirked. Milverton covered his bristle quite efficiently.

"So, Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Milverton sat facing them. His back towards the open French windows, overlooking the garden.

Sherlock knew their every move was being observed, and there were several gunmen hiding behind those bushes.

"Let me recall," Sherlock made a mock thinking gesture, "Ah! That would be four murders," and gave a toothy smile.

Milverton gave a hearty laugh. "Are you sure that it's just four, not six?"

"Mmm, pretty sure. And you know that too, unless," Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, "the Chinese assassin you have hired is collecting his bounty by feeding you false information."

"Good. I'm pressed. But do tell, Mr. Holmes, how did you find out that Chinese connection? I'm curious." A lope sided smile followed that comment.

"I thought that was obvious, but then again, I cannot demand intelligence from the people who have planned such messy and childish murders. It was that poison by which your assassin murdered one of the victims. The herb that was used in the poison is essentially of Chinese origin and it is somewhat of a signature weapon of an underground Chinese mafia gang called Black Lotus. So, tell me, Mr. Milverton, are you one of their investors or a blackmail victims?"

"Neither. A mere business client, you could say. But in any way, you can't prove anything." It was said in a bored drawl but Sherlock knew he had hit a nerve.

"Can't I?"

"No, because signature weapon or not, that claim has to be supported by solid evidence which you lack. Black Lotus is famous for hiding their tracks, didn't you know, Mr. Holmes? I don't do business with losers."

"And what about this confession?"

"You are the one investigating the case, so you can't present yourself as a witness without the physical evidence, neither can that sidekick of yours."

"Not even when I present the recorded proof?" Sherlock stroked his chin with his steepled hands. Not once John had averted his eyes from the person opposite them, Sherlock noted.

"No, not even then as you won't be given the opportunity." Milverton delivered another sugary smile.

 _Ah, the final threat._ Sherlock was practically waiting for it. "You do realize that killing us won't really change the situation, as you'd still be trialled for two murders."

"You are not really that much clever as you claim, Mr. Holmes, do you know that? There is a reason my guards let Mr. Watson enter the room with his gun. It will help me to present my case as self-defence."

John's entire body went rigid almost instantly. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the side of their sofa. Should he have informed Lestrade? But Mycroft knew where he was, and was tracking him right now. No matter what he said to others, Sherlock knew his brother would always come to his rescue. All he needed to do was to buy as much time as he could. But what would he do if something happened to John in the meantime?

"So, we are dying today?" Sherlock's voice still sounded bored.

"Sherlock-" John was losing his calm. Bad timing.

Sherlock patted John's elbow reassuringly, without looking at him. _Not now, John. We need time, more time._

"Yes, it seems so. Although, I must confess that I would have loved to have someone like you at my side, Mr. Holmes. You are too good to be wasted away like this. But I hope you can forgive my survival instinct. Nothing personal, I assure you."

"Oh no, don' it worry about it." Sherlock made a dismissive hand gesture, "It's not important." He could feel John's glare boring hole into the side of his face. _John, please don't react._ "But I have a question- why try to kill your Uncle's children now, when you had all those years to do so?"

"Because of that senile old hag, my uncle!" Milverton huffed exasperatedly and leaned back in his sofa. "Initially, _I_ was the intended heir; there was another will before the current one where he had left most of the property to me. But after my engagement with someone he didn't approve of, and my involvement to some, let's just say, controversial people, my Uncle decided to cancel the old will and left his empire to his bastard children. Rather hypocrite of him, you know."

"How so?"

"You see, firstly, he denied giving them his name due to their lack of noble background, but he never had any qualms making their mother pregnant behind my Aunt's back. Then he wouldn't have even considered making them the heirs if not for my engagement. Don't you think that's highly hypocritical?"

"Indeed. But there wasn't any news regarding your engagement in the papers. Was it a secret affair?"

"Mmm, you could say that. My fiancée has a certain reputation that may attract unwanted popularity. Hence, I wanted it to be a secret till the wedding."

"And I presume, this fiancée of yours is a public figure?"

"Why, yes, she's quite popular in her field of work. And you know what, I think I'll tell you about her. I like talking to you, Mr. Holmes, you are an attentive listener. And it's not like you'll leave this room alive." He winked at Sherlock and threw a cheeky smile before continuing, "My fiancée is Irene Adler."

"Irene Adler...The Dominatrix, widely known as The Woman." Sherlock stated. A popular figure indeed.

"Irene who?"John asked quietly. But before Sherlock could say something, Milverton chirped in.

"You are aware of her, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not personally, not really my area. But yes, I am aware of her existence and her line of _work."_

"Irene who, Sherlock?" John asked again. And again Milverton interrupted.

"Not a very bright assistant, I see."

John visibly bristled at last. Sherlock couldn't really blame him. This Milverton was more irritating than Mycroft.

"Well, forgive me for not knowing someone whose name sounds like an exotic lap dancer. And you have a slight gap in your information. I am also Sherlock's boyfriend."

Sherlock knew he should be worried to see John practically handing the enemy more ammunition against them, but instead, he felt immensely proud. This was the first time John called him his boyfriend in front of a perfect stranger. He stifled his joy and murmured to John, "Your guess is close, John. She provides sexual pleasure to her clients."

John turned at him with raised eyebrows and then turned back to Milverton, "No wonder your Uncle kicked you out of the will. Or maybe he was a client too?" This time John winked.

Who would say that they were facing their possible demise? Sherlock smirked. They were a perfect match.

Opposite them, Charles Milverton snapped shut his jaw.

 _Oh, so John guessed that one correctly, too! Interesting._

"Now now, John, we must not rub embarrassing truths on their faces."

"Oh? You mean his fiancée's leash used to be around his uncle's neck? Bloody hell!"

"John, we should not have this much fun in our last moment, should we?"

John giggled in response.

 _Come on, Mycroft, don't be late. I can't let anything happen to John._

"I am glad that I could provide you with entertainment in your last moment. Well, I must cut this meeting short, as much as I enjoy your childish prattling, your time is up. But, I am a kind man, Mr. Holmes, so, I'm going to offer you an escape. Drop the case."

"In exchange of?" Sherlock mirrored Milverton's posture and rested his elbows on his knees, thus leaning forward.

"My friendship and a free supply of your poison of choice."

That last part echoed within Sherlock's head and everything froze within him. Around him everything went on in slow motion. He saw John lunged forward, tackling Milverton to the ground. Watched John punching the body beneath him again and again. Several doors opened at once and black clad gun men entered the room. And he closed his eyes.

People had despised him for his addiction. His mother cried holding him. Father called him the disgrace of the Holmes family. Mycroft grimaced in disgust. Dealers lured him for money. People who pretended to care pitied him. John stood beside him and held his hand.

But never in his life, had someone offered him drugs to be a criminal. No one ever considered him this low. _He_ never thought himself this low. He wasn't an addict. Wasn't some common junkie. He needed it to slow down. To forget. He needed it to cope after Mum, after Redbeard, after John... _John_. John!

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. John!

John stood there, hands being wrenched behind his back. A gun was pointed at his left temple. Worried eyes focussed on him. He had a split lip. Drops of blood trickled down his chin.

Something kick-started within Sherlock.

"Earth to Holmes! Hello? Just a mention of it and you lost yourself? Why, you are a greater freak than I initially though! Oh, you make it so easy for me." The bastard jeered. Bruises were already forming on his pale face.

John snarled and struggled harder to wrench his arm back from the goon who was holding them. "Don't you fucking dare to talk to him like that, you fucker. Sherlock, look at me! Sherlock, don't listen to him, you hear me, do not listen to this son of a bitch."

"Do you still think that that freak of a boyfriend of yours will choose you over his beloved cocaine? Look at him! He's already drooling, sitting over there, lost in some ecstatic memory. Like a dog waits-"

"You fucktard motherfuc-"

A punch landed over John's jaw line. Sherlock got up at last and stood nose to nose with Milverton.

"You, you slime of the gutter, you dare to hurt John? My John? You think you can lure me with some petty drugs? You think you can exploit my addiction, use it against me?" Someone grabbed his arms from behind and dragged him backwards, pulling him from Milverton. "Do not compare me with you. You have nothing to control me. Nothing. You are hopelessly pathetic fool, and you think you can _buy_ me? You have grown up like a parasite, spending your Uncle's money, satisfying your libido with your Uncle's leftover. You should have backed off and spend your life licking the bones your dear Uncle had thrown at you when you had the chance. But instead, you made the mistake of hurting John and threatening me. Do you honestly think a failure like you can ever have the upper hand? What can you do?"

Milverton gave a manic laugh at that, face twisting like an ugly beast.

"What can I do? You want to see?" His eyes never left Sherlock's "Kill the sidekick."

A tornado passed through the room after that.

Gun shots. Bullets came flying from the direction of those garden bushes. Several bodies fell to the ground at the same time. A body pushed Sherlock from behind, making him flat on the ground. Pain flared through his skull. Through the haze, he saw John's fallen figure. There was so much blood everywhere. He saw John's hair turned red. Sherlock's vision went black.

Screams. John. Blood. Bullets. Wound. John. More screams. John.

It took awfully long for Sherlock to realize that the scream was directing at him. He was being screamed at. He tried to squint his eyes, tried to steady his lolling head to see who it was. The voice sounded so familiar... and those eyes, those... John! John was screaming at him. John was alive. John was with him!

"Jawwn...Jawn...Jawnnnn...Joh-"

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm all right. Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Why was he shaking so violently? Why John couldn't hear him? Why everything was so blurry?

"Jawwn...Jaw..awwn."

"Sherlock? Look at me, LOOK AT ME! Love, I am all right. I am here, Sherlock! Open your eyes, look at me!"

Gradually he realized that it wasn't his inner tremor. It was John shaking him. Looking at him. There were blood on his face. Blood dropping from his face. Blood. John.

"John! John! Blood. John, blood."

"Not mine, not mine, Sherlock I'm not hit. I am okay, you are okay. Greg's here. It's okay, love. We are okay."

Sherlock buried his face in John's chest. He would have felt ashamed for being so vulnerable, so pathetic. But he didn't care. He couldn't. He was about to lose his John. Again. He couldn't let him go. Not now. Not ever.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."

"What for? Sherlock, what are you apologizing for, love? You solved the case!"

John, holding him, rocked back and forth. Sherlock felt the motion bizarrely calming.

"No, I couldn't, I couldn't. You were almost killed. John, John...I almost lost you."

"No, love. You didn't. I am right here. We are right here. We are fine. Now can you get up for me? Medic's here, I want them to give you a check up."

Sherlock shook his head, and the movement hurt like hell. Possible concussion.

"I think, you have a concussion, Sherlock, let them check."

"Al-all right."

Sherlock got up and sat on a chair. And then only, the whole scene registered to his mind. There were dead bodies everywhere. Milverton's body was one of them, lying twisted and torn; lifeless eyes staring blankly. There were several bullet holes on his body. It looked like everyone died except for them. Sherlock tried to frown but that hurt so much that he resisted from frowning again.

"NSY didn't do this," Sherlock stated.

"No, we didn't." Confirmed Lestrade who was now standing beside John.

"You didn't? Then who?" John asked while wiping the blood with that garishly orange shock blanket. There was so much blood.

Sherlock again closed his eyes. He needed to find out who interrupted the killing, saving them. But he couldn't concentrate on anything when John was standing there. drenched in blood, and besides, his head ached so much.

"Hey hey hey, no falling asleep, open your eyes, Sherlock. No sleeping."

"I'm not sleeping." He snapped at John, who momentarily stopped his fussing and grinned at him.

 _Lunatic. Idiot. Mine._

 _But who killed Milverton and his men?_

 _Mycroft? Highly unlikely. But...then who?_

"You haven't gotten any lead?"

"No, I swept the whole building and the possible areas from where the shots could have come. But couldn't get any clue. Not even a footprint."

Sherlock tried to roll his eyes and grimaced again. "Since when NSY is known for solving crimes and collecting proper clues? But how did you get here? Mycroft?"

"Yes, your brother informed me. And I also got a text from John. But I was on the other side of London and without my personal presence Donovan couldn't have barged in, hence the delay. Sorry for that."

John sent him a text? Sherlock promptly looked at John.

"Don't worry, love, we'll have a loooong talk once you are safe at home." John's smile was anything but amused.

Sherlock wanted to scowl but couldn't. So he grabbed John and tugged him towards himself and buried his face in his chest once again.

They were safe. They were together.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

 _Meanwhile somewhere in London:_

"Was that really necessary to kill my fiancé?"

"Yep."

"But I was this close of getting married and gaining all the property. I could have killed him myself then."

"That's not the point, dearie."

"Don't tell me that detective kid is so important that you killed poor Charles to save him?"

"Your prediction is spot on, only the target is wrong."

"Wrong target? You mean... you killed all those men and blown up two good business deals for that washed up Army doctor?"

"I can kill you too for calling him names, darling. You bad, bad girl. Don't forget, you're just a puppet, Irene."

"I- didn't know he was...important to you. I apologize, Jim."

"No worries. All good. Just remember your position, all right?"

"Of course. So, my next task?"

"Mmmmm, I'll let you know. It's your mourning week, after all. My condolences."

"You are a piece of work, Jim, do you know that?"

"Am I? I have absolutely no idea! Now, shoo."

...

"Boss, who's next?"

"The Black Lotus chief."

"All right. Uh..."

"Sebby darling, do you think I should let her go for ignoring my direct order about not hurting John?"

"No, Boss."

"Right answer!"

"And what for now?"

"Ummm, I guess Indian take away. Would you like that, Sebby baby?"

"I would."

"You are a sweetheart. Now, go away before bringing me the new folder on John."

"Yes, Boss."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

The name **Charles Milverton** is taken from " **The Adventures of Charles Augustus Milverton** " by **Sir Arthur Conan Doyle** (It is one of the stories from ' **The Return of Sherlock Holmes** ' series)

My knowledge of Cerebral Palsy is mostly Wiki dependent. Therefore, I apologize for the mistakes you'll find. Freddie is one of my most favourite OCs I have ever written.


	13. Chapter 13 Ebb and Flow

**Hi guys,**

 **Here is the next chapter! There are fluff and feels and Mycroft!**

 **Hope you enjoy it. Also, tomorrow is the day when this story Trilogy series becomes a year old. So... Happy Birthday to my darling baby boys!**

 **Hugs and Myc plushies to- Raven, Nauss, TakedaEmo120 and those who followed/favourited this story! Love you guys.**

 **Also, I have published a Johnlock oneshot, 'Never Let Me Go'. Give it a chance if you have time.**

 **Now, enjoy the read!**

* * *

 **Ebb and Flow**

 **"** **I still feel your breath on my skin**

 **I hear your voice deep within**

 **The sound of my lover, a feeling so strong**

 **It's to you I'll always belong..."**

\- ' **I Will Always Return'** by **Bryan Adams**

* * *

John's head hit the wall with a _thud_.

"Ow! Sherlock, what the-"

Nimble fingers were already wrenching his clothes off, but those lips remained sealed tight.

Sherlock wasn't talking.

For the detective, not talking wasn't rare, but when he refused to even utter a word after the medic discovered that there was, in fact, a slightly grazed would inches above John's right hipbone, it was alarming. John's body was war toughened; it was just a scratch. But Sherlock stopped talking right after that. So far his only outburst was a snarl aimed at a doctor who had asked him to leave the room while giving John a full body check-up; other than that he demeanour was blank throughout the journey back to Baker Street. And now that same man was tearing John's shirt apart with a manic speed.

"Sher-Sherlock, I'm okay, I'm alright- ev-ow!"

Sherlock froze immediately, "Where? Where are you hurting? Where else are you hit? Are you- are there-"

"Sherlock, love-"

"Where's it, John?"

To his horror, Sherlock started to shake. A slight tremor grew to be a full body shivering. After a beat, John's soldier mode kicked in.

"Sherlock," he cupped his boyfriend's pale, sunken face, "I just hit my head on the wall. Just now. That's all. I'm not hit anywhere else, honest. You-" he tightened his grip when Sherlock wanted to break free, "you saw that yourself, right? When that doctor checked me, you saw that, right, love?"

"No, not right, not right, no no no no no."

Sherlock's lithe frame was trembling, struggling, panting. John's own panic level increased.

"Sherlock-"

"NO! No, not right. Nothing is right, nothing. You- you were shot, John, you were- I- you could have died; I could have-" he let go his grip on John's hands and clutched his own hair instead, "I could have lost you. One of those bullets could have penetrated you and- and I would have lost you all over again. And I just stood there, like a brainless buffoon. I knew there'd be violence and yet- and yet- John, John..."

 _Sherlock never dwells on_ could haves. _This means..._

John did the only thing he knew that could stop Sherlock going into shock. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's to stop them from tugging painfully at those curls, pulled the younger man flush against him and crashed their mouth together. He felt Sherlock's lips moving as the younger man still kept talking.

Okay, yeah, maybe that wasn't a great way to handle someone in shock, considering John's medical background, but he just survived a shoot out, came this close of losing Sherlock...so, cut him some slack, yeah?

Sherlock's lips stopped moving finally after a few seconds and his fingers loosened their grip. John opened his eyes without breaking the kiss and was greeted by a very up close shot of a cross-eyed Sherlock as he was trying to look at John. John pulled away and licked his lips; Sherlock's wide eyes followed every movement.

"Want me to stop?"John asked breathlessly. Sherlock pounced on him, smashing their lips once again.

The kiss was brutal, hungry, desperate. Sherlock bit John's lower lip hard, making him wince but he didn't pull away, realizing that Sherlock needed some sort of control to convince himself that he didn't fuck up everything.

Teeth clanked together, tongues collided inside warm, wet mouths, eliciting moans from both of them. John let go of Sherlock's shirt and gripped his narrow, bony hips. Bodies flushed, their erection brushed together. Sherlock hissed into John's mouth who thrust his hips forward in response.

"John"

The breathy whisper forced John to open his eyes once again. Were they closed? He was too lost in the sensation to notice. However, the sight made him groan in pleasure. Sherlock looked debauched; he looked aroused, delectable.

The hair a wild mess, eyes glazed, lips red, spit slicked and swollen. His Adam's apple bobbled as he swallowed.

"John."

"I love you."

"John"

"I love you so fucking much."

"John, I-"

"Tell me, Sherlock?"

"You're here. I didn't lose you. You are here, John."

"Yes, yes, we are here. We are safe, and now you are going to stop talking and kiss me some more."

But he didn't wait for the other man as he turned them around so that now Sherlock was the one with his back to the wall. John captured those lips with his own, without any delay, and suckled on them hungrily; all the while rubbing their raging hard ons together. When he began to get down on his knees, leaving sloppy kisses in his wake, Sherlock grabbed his shoulder clumsily and shook his head.

"No.."

"Wha'?" John's arousal making it hard for him to speak.

"No."

It took a few seconds but the fog began to clear up finally and John's flushed face began to lose its colour quickly.

"You mean- oh! Oh God!...I'm- I'm sorry. I thought you- I assumed that you...fuck! I'm so sor-"

"NO!" Sherlock cut in immediately, "no, I want it, very much so. It is not that."

If John didn't know any better he would have thought that Sherlock was blushing. But John was too mortified thinking that he, again, imposed himself on Sherlock without the other man's consent and that wonderful red tinge on his pale cheeks was just arousal flush and most certainly anger, not a blush. He had fucked up once again. John swallowed.

"What is it, then?"

Sherlock gave him a hesitant look, "I want to do it this time."

John's breath hitched as the meaning of Sherlock's words sank in. Those lips wrapped around his cock, cheeks hollowing in suction... John closed his eyes briefly, "Y-you mean you want to suck me off?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, all embarrassment gone, "Yes, John, I want to 'suck you off', to give you a blowjob which also called the act of fellating where you get naked, or at least, pull your penis-"

"Okay, okay, alright, I get it," John interjected promptly, because seriously! "Have you ever..."

"No," Sherlock looked thoroughly annoyed by now.

"Sherlock, you don't have to do it. It's not- It's not about taking turns, you know," John caressed Sherlock's left cheek. As happy as his cock felt at the prospect of having Sherlock's mouth around it, John couldn't let him do it out of obligation. Not ever."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "You doubt me. You doubt my ability to apply theoretical knowledge to a practical situation. You don't trust me with your body anymore."

"W-what?" _What?! What was he going on about?_

"Of course, you do. And it is only logical for you to do it. After how spectacularly I failed today. I knew it'd be dangerous and yet I took you with me and, and now there is another bullet would in your body. I knew, I should have seen it but I didn't care, I just went on..."

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

John yanked at Sherlock's half opened shirt collar, "Shut up, you brat! You talk too much," and kissed shut his mouth once more. Sherlock didn't continue to speak this time. John pulled back when he was sure the younger man wouldn't start talking immediately, and looked into the silvery eyes in front of him.

"You want to know how much I trust you with my body?" When Sherlock didn't even blink John leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Take me, Sherlock," and bit his earlobe to emphasize.

He leaned back to see how his lover had taken the request.

A moment of blankness, then Sherlock began to blink furiously, opening then closing his mouth. John's heart swelled with affection.

"So, what do you think, lover?" He teased, 'Three Continents Watson' voice is on.

"I think we need a horizontal surface to follow through that, um, _request_."

John grinned, "Bedroom?"

"Bedroom."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock knew every freckle, every line, every curve of John's body better than he knew about the periodic table. Since they had begun to sleep on the same bed, and more often than not, naked, he catalogued John with utmost dedication. Yet, every time he saw John naked, he would find him more mysterious than before, like there were still lots of things he had missed to store away in his John-wing.

Such as this almost invisible little brown freckle, just over John's heart. This wasn't here the last time he explored this enigmatic body. Sherlock thumbed the spot then ran his tongue over it, leaving the skin glistening. Carding the fingers through his curls John tugged him forward; John's other hand slid up and down his back. He averted his eyes from the freckle and looked up at John, chin resting against the broad chest.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"But you don't bottom."

"I'm not gonna ask how the hell did you know that but you're right. I don't bottom, usually."

"Then what has prompted this sudden change?"

John squirmed under him. Sherlock knew his boyfriend was getting impatient; instead of having frenzied sex he was being interrogated. Poor John. Sherlock bit down the skin closest to his mouth.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You didn't answer me."

"Well," John flicked Sherlock's nose, "I'm crazy for you. Top, bottom, middle, I'm all in for you, _Lock_."

Sherlock didn't smile back, though. All too aware of how close he came today losing everything. All too aware of what John was trying to do.

"Do not fool yourself thinking that I am not aware of what you are trying to do."

John's fingers playing over Sherlock's nape stilled and he said, "Oh? And what is it?" But not really seeking the answer as he went on without pausing, "You know what, I don't want to know. This is not the kind of talk I fancied having when you pushed me into this bed. Come on, Sherlock, I thought you're gonna pound me into the mattress."

The slight desperation in his lover's voice didn't escape Sherlock's trained ears. He pushed himself up, enough to reach John's mouth.

"You don't have to make me feel in control. Power doesn't soothe me, John, truth does...you do. And though losing control over my mental as well as physical faculties unsettle me thoroughly, I can live with it if I know you are safe and with me. It is you, John, who has taught me that it is quite acceptable to be scared at times. Therefore, my brave soldier, it is all right to be scared. You don't have to be strong just because you think I need you to be. It's all right; we can be scared together...as long as Mycroft doesn't get notified."

John's eyes stung and he blinked to clear his blurring vision. At the mention of Mycroft he choked out a laugh.

"Who are you and what have you done to my Sherlock?"

"An idiot came and turned him into a human," he nipped at John's nose, slid down lower and took John in his mouth. If his fear, insecurities, vulnerability led him to John then Sherlock would embrace them, not without trying to find another way, of course, but he agreed to let go of his control as long as John was there to keep him right.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

John woke up fuzzy and warm, feeling content and complete. He opened one sleep mushed eye. A nice, warm weight against his chest. He looked down and saw a sheet covered lump; Sherlock was underneath, tracing a finger across John's stomach.

John removed the cover and ruffled the curls fondly, "Hey." Sherlock didn't respond.

John remembered last night. Remembered a completely different Sherlock. A Sherlock who took control by letting himself go. A Sherlock who convinced John that it was okay to show weakness, to be demanding, to want to lean on. A Sherlock who took care of John made him feel wanted.

He tugged at those curls and scratched the scalp lightly, "Hello, sunshine," and bit his lip in amusement for Sherlock was surely going to kick him any minute now.

The kick never came nor was there any other response. Alarm bells went crazy within John's head. He tried to bend without dislodging his lover to look at him. Sherlock kept on drawing patterns on John's skin.

"Sherlock?" John asked carefully.

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke.

"I never went to see her."

The abruptness of that statement informed John that Sherlock was emotional, meaning, he had to be very careful.

"Who, love?"

"Mummy."

His heart stopped for a moment then gave a loud thud. Sherlock never, NEVER talked about his mother.

"Do you want to go?" John didn't know what he should not say that could put Sherlock off kilter; he just hoped that this question was safe enough.

"No."

Another pause; John weighed his next question. "Okay...um...but why so?"

Sherlock didn't look at John, once; nor had he stopped his finger.

"She is not there. She is dead."

There were more to come and John waited.

"She left me."

John wanted to gather him up and held him tightly. His chest ached with longing. But he didn't do anything. It was not a hug, or a kiss that Sherlock needed now. He'd have to blend his love with clinical eagerness.

"Did she do it willingly?"

The stilling of that roaming finger was the only sign that the question had made an impact. John didn't coax for more. A tiniest slip and Sherlock's guards would be shut tight.

"Say, she had other options, do you, um, do you think she still would have left you?" He tried really hard to sound genuinely curious rather than pitying or patronizing.

Sherlock didn't answer but stopped all his movements.

"Love?"

"Not enough data to conclude."

"Okay, alright, okay. But, uh, if you were to draw any conclusion based on the data you have now, what would that be?"

"...She would not have left. But that is entirely hypothetical.

"Yeah, yeah, totally hypothetical, no relevance at all, entirely-"

Sherlock sprang up and scowled which looked more like a pout. John wanted to smother him with kisses. He reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, Sherlock shook his head. He loved this man so much, so very much that it hurt.

"Why are you condemning her for something she didn't do?"

"If it hasn't crossed your mind yet, John, she is dead. What I do or do not think about her does not affect her in any way."

He gave Sherlock a pointed look which earned him a glare.

"If it is your prelude to some horribly sentimental lecture, keep it to yourself. Spare me the torture." He flops down over John's chest. John 'oof'd'.

"I do not blame her for anything. She is dead, John."

John just hummed non-committally and squeezed that bony shoulder of Sherlock, "Do you see her in your Mind-Palace? Like the way you used to see me or...Redbeard?"

Broaching this subject was like walking on the quicksand, John was well aware of that, but he had to do it anyway. Sherlock was seeking reassurance in his own twisted, misguided way and John would give him just that.

"She is always either in the kitchen or in her library whenever I visit her. She coddles me like I am still six. Disgusting."

Sherlock burrowed his nose into the golden skin of John's torso. It tickled and John tugged the curls playfully, smiling.

"So..."

"No."

"Don't you want to meet her?"

"I visit her often enough."

"But I want to meet her too."

"No need. She knows all about your idiocy already."

Something warm spread through John's chest.

"She does?"

"Obviously."

John took a moment to let that sink in. Sherlock talked about him to his mother whose death he never accepted. Knowing this broke John's heart. He tilted his head at an odd angle and kissed the top of this adorable genius man child who was currently biting and kitten-licking John's skin.

Sherlock caught the hand in his nape and brought it around and pressed his nose in it.

People didn't have any clue how cuddly Sherlock really was. Whereas a mere brush of skin from others could put him in a snit, he practically glued himself to John when they were at home. Sometimes, John had to literally carry him when he refused to walk or even stand in between a snogging session. And John loved every minute of it.

"I still want to meet her," and when Sherlock scowled at him he added, "Not all of us has the luxury of having a Mind Palace, love. Will you be willing to take me to her?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he half crawled, half wriggled upwards and nuzzled into John's neck. John wasn't used to this soft, warm, open version of his boyfriend and it made him ecstatic to know that Sherlock felt safe enough with him to expose this side of him.

"No, I'm not willing to-" he kissed John, "take you-" another kiss, "to her."

"But you said she already knew about me."

"Sheez 'zy." Sherlock mumbled into the neck.

"What?" John laughed at Sherlock's antics.

"She. Is. Nosy. Now, shut up and don't move."

John chuckled despite the tightness in his chest. Under all this pomp, the 'sociopathic' act, there was a boy who was still clinging to his mother's memories, unable to let go. He didn't want to snatch away Sherlock's illusion of his mother's presence. But Sherlock clearly wanted to visit her grave and needed John to give him courage; it was Sherlock's offhanded way of asking for help, and John would do anything to support him.

"Okay," John heaved a mock sign, "then I'll just have to ask Mycroft-" he couldn't even complete the sentence before Sherlock sat up with a spring's reflex.

"No! You will not ask my brother for anything. Anything," he bellowed, "I'll be everything you need. You are mine, John, only mine. I will not let anyone take you away from me. I will not."

John pressed his hand against Sherlock's chest in an attempt to soothe his sudden agitation. Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked at the hand and then back at John.

This ingrained fear of losing loved ones, this all consuming abandonment issue- John could see these were engulfing Sherlock, making him obsessed, almost delusional, at an alarming speed, and it scared him no end. This was a deep rooted fear. One of the many skeletons that Sherlock had hidden in the closet of his Mind Palace. But he also knew it wasn't time to address the problem. This was a topic he'd have to broach with the precision of a surgeon. And the time hadn't come yet.

"I am yours, Sherlock. Only yours. Don't you trust me?"

Still pinning John with those piercing eyes, Sherlock gritted out, "I don't trust Mycroft."

"Why?"

And just like that, Sherlock's face shuttered completely.

"I do not wish to have a debate about my action and reaction towards my brother with you. You have tried, innumerable times, to convince me of my brother's 'justified' and 'good willed' meddling, but forgive me if I do not agree with your ill-formed explanations."

 _So, I guess, the mystery behind the brotherly 'love' of these two prats won't be revealed today also_. John signed and tried to sit up and winced when the sheet grazed over the bandage a little harshly.

Sherlock's expression became totally blank, "Perhaps, you _are_ better off without me, John."

John stopped his movements for a second to say, "Really?" Then readjusted himself to a more comfortable position and continued, "'Cause, compared to dying in a fucking desert with holes in my body and memories of you...or, contemplating suicide to escape a life without you, I'll happily accept a life where I survive a bullet shower with a mere flesh wound and wake up in the morning next to you."

Sherlock's lower lip jutted out, eyes roamed from John's injured shoulder to his chest to the bandaged area, he blinked a few times then made to get up and leave the room.

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare to walk away from me. Put your arse back under the cover so that I can snuggle with you for the unforeseeable future."

Sherlock looked at John owlishly for a moment and slipped under the cover without another word, immediately tucking himself around John.

"Christ! I just wanted to meet your Mum. What will I have to go through when I propose you?!" John murmured absent-mindedly, mostly to himself, completely missing the way Sherlock went still beside him, barely breathing, clinging to John like he would drift away otherwise. He also missed the whispered " _'When'...not 'if'..._

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Despite John's desire to spend the whole day in bed, it didn't happen. Because, Mycroft Holmes happened.

When he entered the living room, stretching his limbs and scratching his bum, Mycroft was there, sitting on John's chair with all his git-y attitude and punch worthy smugness.

 _Aristoprat_ but aloud he greeted him with a "Hey" and put the kettle on, "tea?"

"Hello, John. Yes, please. No sugar."

John hummed absentmindedly.

"Still on a diet, brother?"

"Still wrapped in your security blanket, brother?"

Sherlock sneered, "What are you doing here?"

"To ensure John and your wellbeing, of course."

The git mentioned him first deliberately, John rubbed his forehead. _It's too early for this_.

"We are fine. Go away." John heard Sherlock grit out.

"John is making tea. For me."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock all but shouted. No one could get into the younger man's skin the way his brother did.

At least, that bark made Mycroft drop the act, "You two need to leave the country for a while, but before that, you are required to visit the Scotland Yard for a debriefing."

John was done lurking in the kitchen and hurried back into the room with two steaming cups. "Leave the country? What do you mean?"

At the same time Sherlock demanded, "Where's mine?"

John looked at him, confused, "You said you didn't want a cuppa when I asked."

"I didn't know you'd be making tea for Mycroft!"

John took a deep breath, "Alright, take mine, then."

"No, take Mycroft's away."

John's eye began to twitch and his fingers begged to strangle someone.

Mycroft put his umbrella down.

"Adorable as it is to see you two fight like an old married couple, I do not wish to bear witness to such a private..uh..scene. Therefore, Sherlock, if you can manage to act like your age for a moment, I have _things_ to discuss."

"And why should I listen to you?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella, "No reason at all. Then, I'll just ask John to accompany me to my car so that I can have a discussion in a more suitable environment."

"You will not take John away to anywhere!"

The pitch was almost eardrum shattering and John scrunched up his face. One of these days he was going to be completely deaf for this part banshee boyfriend of his.

"Quiet down!" He said at last.

"Are you taking Mycroft's-"

"Of course, he is, brother de-"

"Mycroft, shut it. Sherlock, shut up. I will not be subjected to your cat fights. Sherlock, you'll sit there with me and listen to what Mycroft has to say. Mycroft, you'll tell us what you've come to tell, then get the hell out of here. Are we clear?"

"Crystal" the brothers chorused

"Good."

Sherlock sat on the red chair while John sat on one of the armrests.

"You were saying something about us leaving the country...what was that?"

Mycroft glanced at his brother briefly before answering John, "My department has had run a search about the snipers that attacked Milverton and his men, and came up with a blank. There is no data, no file, encrypted or otherwise, nothing that can reveal their identity." Mycroft shifted in his seat very minutely but enough to give away his embarrassment, "They even jammed and froze all the camera feeds surrounding the area before the attack. That is quite a task- breaching MI6 security system."

"Clearly." John chirped in.

Mycroft, predictably, chose to ignore and continued, "We are considering a possible infiltration, but whoever they are, they are quite efficient and have done their homework. Though it looked like they saved your lives, until their intention and identity are clear enough, I cannot and will not risk your safety. Therefore, you two must spend some time away till everything is under control."

John exhaled loudly after Mycroft's monologue stopped. It was a lot to take in and if they were going to... _hang on! Why is it so quiet?_ John cocked his head and eyed the younger Holmes suspiciously. The man was still and currently squinting at his brother who, for his part, met the gaze with a poker face.

"Spit it out, Mycroft."

"I do not know what yo-"

"You are growing senile quicker than anticipated if you think that pretence will work. Now, what else?"

Mycroft's jaw line hardened at once but he restrained for retorting and said, "The head of the Black Lotus clan has been found dead last night."

"Black Lotus? Isn't that the gang Milverton was dealing with?" John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock.

"Yes, that's the one," Sherlock got into his classic thinking pose, "which means, by killing Milverton and the Black Lotus men the sniper gang was settling some things, obviously. But why that particular moment when the job could have been done any other time in a move convenient place? And why hacking MI6 when the first guess should have been NSY?"

They all knew that Sherlock wasn't exactly seeking answers but Mycroft answered anyway, "Why indeed."

"Ah! I see!" Sherlock's eyes widened and he exclaimed to the bison.

"What?" John asked.

"Don't you see, John?" He turned his head to face him, "It was never them. It was me. Do you remember when the shooting started? Precisely the moment when Milverton ordered his men to kill us. _I_ am the MI6 connection. _I_ am the central piece of this puzzle."

"Or _I_ ," Mycroft butted in, "always so full of yourself, aren't you, brother dear? I wouldn't be so sure if I were in your position, seeing that the most probable reason of you being the actual target is your connection with me. If the group has gone so far as infiltrating government's confidential files, then the chance of them using you as a pawn to reach me is quite high."

Sherlock was a creature of reason, but when did sibling rivalry bother with logic? John took a deep breath to prepare himself to witness some Holmes bashing.

"Is that so, Mycroft? Well, judging by your line of reasoning there are two possible conclusions: either all that fat has finally clogged your brain and your ability to observe clearly has been compromised...or this is one of your many naive attempts to score one over me. Over confidence is often misleading, but then, you are pretty habituated with it by now."

In reply Mycroft did what Sherlock hated most: he ignored his brother completely, barely sparing him a glance before addressing John, "You two need to change your location until I find out the group's motive."

"And you'll never be able to do that without me," Sherlock bit out, "you need me for this."

"No, I do not."

"Hey guys, listen-"

"You know better than to force me into anything, Mycroft."

Mycroft was standing now; he tapped his umbrella on the carpet and turned towards his fuming brother.

"You are willing to risk John's life so that you can feed your ego? After everything you have put him through? That is quite a...shocking thing to do to someone you claim to _care_ about so much."

"Mycroft!" John yelled at the same time Sherlock uttered a "Get out" in an eerily quiet tone.

Mycroft looked at them for a moment long before striding off the room proudly. But he stopped at the door.

"John, please accompany me to the car. I have some important things to discuss."

What John really wanted to do was to hit the insensitive bastard on the head, but he was also aware that making a fuss about what Mycroft just said could backfire for Sherlock. He looked at his boyfriend once, who was now standing by the window, and followed Mycroft out.

"What the hell was that for, Mycroft? How can you do that to your brother?" The instant they reached the car, John hissed out.

Mycroft just opened the car door and gestured to get in. John gaped at him.

"Seriously? After that stunt you pulled upstairs, you expect me to get cozy with you in your kidnap car?"

Mycroft exhaled slowly, "My brother has chosen to stand by the window for a reason, John. He can lip-read."

John's head snapped up to see that, yes, Sherlock was indeed looking at them with a blank face. He knew there'd be hell to pay if he got into the car now, but was also aware that he should at least hear Mycroft out. The man was not known for idle chatting. He glanced at Sherlock once more before entering the car.

"Now, make it quick."

The prat lifted an eyebrow at that and gave a toothy smile, "Aren't we eloquent this morning?"

"Oh, shut it. I knew you were a prat but what you did back there was way below the belt. Do you have any idea how shaken he was last night? He blames himself for what happened, for God's sake!"

"It was indeed his fault, yes. He reasoned correctly."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and struggled to control his rage. It took him a moment to form any response.

"You...are you serious? How can you be so-...so cold? He's your own brother! You know, I always thought it was rather childish of Sherlock to treat you the way he did. I have no idea what's wrong between you two but I never thought of you as a cruel person."

Mycroft smirked. "You seem to think very highly of me, dear doctor. I am flattered, but it also surprises me as it contradicts with your usual habit of following my brother in every way."

"Highly or not, I can't ignore, nor can I forget, the fact that without you I might not have gotten him back, ever."

"I didn't do it for you."

"I'm sure you didn't."

Mycroft stared at him speculatively for a long moment before looking out of the window, "The only time I can retract any form of reaction from my brother is when I patronize him. He deems me worthy of his time only when I succeed to aggravate him. My relationship with my brother is not _common_." Mycroft grimaced slightly, as if the word had left a bad taste in his mouth, "He is easy to manipulate when he is angry. His hate is a better option for me than his aloofness."

John opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to say something, anything, and finally shook his head, "That's probably the _shittiest_ excuse I've ever heard. That's the best you could think of?"

Mycroft blinked at him, "I do wonder what Sherlock sees in you."

"Something he doesn't see in you, clearly."

"Thankfully."

John huffed tiredly and rubbed his temples, "Mycroft, it there any _real_ reasons you've stuffed me here? Or you just love to spend time with me in confined places?"

The elder Holmes' lips formed a tight line, "I was not in a jesting mood when I stated about Sherlock's life being in danger."

"Why do you think so?"

"I have reasons to believe."

"And what are those might be?"

"The ones that I gave you and Sherlock earlier, are they not enough?" He leaned forward, "Look, John, I know you will not overlook a danger just to spite me. Do you not find it strange what happened yesterday?"

"But why'd anyone try to kill Sherlock? I mean, has he had ever pissed that big of a criminal who'd send a whole bunch of snipers after him?"

"My brother has an inherent talent of making people turn against him. However, in this particular situation, I do not think it is related to Sherlock, directly."

"So, you think someone's trying to get to you through him?"

"I believe so, yes."

John stared at his own hands.

"I do not wish to take risk where my brother is concerned if I can help it. I trust you to understand that."

"How long do we have to go away? And where?"

"A couple of weeks. In France."

"You mean at your grandmother's house?" That was where Sherlock was going when they first met. A lifetime ago.

"No, somewhere else, where I can plant my men. Our grandmother is quite, uh, averse to the idea of allowing unknown agents to her house."

John snorted, imagining an old lady throwing tantrum.

"And it will do you good to have a vacation."

"Oh, shut up," John said without any bite. "Okay, alright. I can't promise you anything, but I'll try to convince him." And he opened the car door but paused before getting out, "I guess you've already asked your men to tail behind us, but please ask them to be really discreet, at least for tomorrow, yeah?"

"Do tell why so?"

John hesitated; he really didn't want to tell anyone, let alone Mycroft of all people, about tomorrow. It felt like betraying Sherlock's trust, but he also knew that any kind of hindrance can jeopardize their plan.

"He...uh, he has agreed to take me to his- your mother."

If it were any other time John would have relished the gobsmacked look on Mycroft's face. But his head was too addled to register the expression. He got out of the car.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock was no longer peeking out of the window. John took a deep breath before entering the flat.

"Sh-"

"NO."

John jumped out of his skin at the sudden shout.

"Lis-"

"NO! No, no, no! My answer is no."

A livid Sherlock stormed out of the living room and John heard the bedroom door slammed shut.

He rubbed his hands over his tired face. Sometimes, he really wanted to scream at Sherlock, like just now, but instead, he put the kettle on.

... ... ...

John was gripping the kitchen counter when Sherlock appeared in his peripheral view. John didn't look at him.

When, even after a minute or so, John didn't acknowledge his presence Sherlock started to fidget. John wouldn't relent though. He was so done with this daily drama.

"Erm...we are out of milk."

 _That's his opening line for a patch-up plan? Yeah, so done._ "Go and buy it, then."

Sherlock frowned lightly, "But it's your job to buy milk."

"My _job_ , huh?" John let out a bitter laugh, "It's great to hear you describe my caring, my love for you as a 'job'. Well, let me tell you, Sherlock Holmes, that it is not my _job_ to buy your milk, to do your laundry, to make sure you eat and sleep, to tolerate your snide remarks and tantrums. I do all these because I love you, and I do not consider loving you, or anyone for that matter, as a _job_." John shoved his hands into his pockets and licked his lips, "I'm not a saint, Sherlock. I do get angry; I get murderous even. Sometimes, I want to yell back at you, or break things. Sometimes, I even consider of moving back to the bedroom upstairs. But I never act upon any of these thoughts. Know why? Because I love you. No matter how many times you drive me up the wall, at the end of the day, when I see you safe and happy, I feel complete. But do not take my patience as deliberate helplessness. I can yell at you, too, whenever the mood strikes, or I can take all my frustrations out at you. Trust me, I really can. I just choose not to. I don't mind your temper tantrums but I am _not_ your punching bag."

Sherlock's face was completely blank. John wasn't sure if his boyfriend was still with him and not tucked somewhere in his Mind Palace, but was too tired to care. He headed for the door; he needed to get away for a moment. But stopped short.

"I want to you to be safe just as much as you want me to be."

The door clicked shut quietly behind him.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

After venting out his frustration over a pint or two at the pub with Mike, when John finally opened the main door of 221B almost three hours, the air smelled foul and burnt. He sprinted the rest of the way to their flat.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

The sound of hastily dumped utensils came from the kitchen area. John dashed for it.

"Sherlock?"

And there he was, his boyfriend, standing stiff as board, looking awkward, near the sink. The burnt smell was thick here. John felt baffled.

"What are you doing here? What happened?"

And then his eyes fell on the table and any other questions which he might want to ask died down immediately. The table was set. For two. And it looked like...

"You were cooking?!"

John didn't mean his voice to actually squeak but he couldn't help it. The whole situation was...bizarre.

"I made dinner." Sherlock attempted a defiant tone which fell flat and sounded more like a mumble.

"You did what?"

Sherlock was getting restless but John was too shell-shocked to care.

"Dinner. I made dinner for you. Is it really that hard to understand?"

"Under- Sherlock, you made _dinner_! You _cooked_! Y-you never even butter your toasts yourself!"

"That is a lie! I did butter my toasts last week."

John closed his eyes and shook his head. Surely he wasn't drunk enough to conjure such an elaborate scene? Sherlock made dinner for him? To apologize? Maybe he _was_ drunk!

"Wh-what's the smell? What did you burn?"

"Eggs."

Sherlock sounded as if the eggs deliberately burnt themselves just to spite him.

John licked his lips, "Yeah, stupid eggs."

"Are you laughing at me, John?"

"Nope, never," he then let the small laugh slip through him, "I don't even know how to react, actually. You cooked. Is there a reason or..." he trailed off. He had a very good idea what the reason was but couldn't let go the temptation of hearing it from the man himself.

"It was for experimental purpose."

John sighed and gave a small, a tab bit sad smile, "Of course, it was." And before Sherlock could say anything he hurried towards the table, "Okay, let's see what are we having tonight!"

Slightly burnt toasts and dubious looking omelettes.

But John's throat felt tight for a different reason. It'd been ages since anyone cooked just for him, without being paid, ordered or duty bound. So what if it was breakfast food he'd be eating at dinner? Nothing could diminish the joy he felt right now.

He sat down and made an enthusiastic sound and said, "Shall we?"

But before he could take a bite of his omelette, Sherlock stopped him, "Don't eat it."

"What? Why?"

"It is not edible."

"How do you know? You haven't even touched yours."

"Look at them, John! These omelettes look like distorted dead bodies."

"Urgh...Sherlock.." John whined and grimaced.

"Sorry," came Sherlock's quiet voice when he was trying to shove off the images of omelettes as scattered dead bodies. But that small voice jolted his musings to a halt.

"What?" _Did Sherlock just...apologize?_

But the man was deliberately avoiding John's eyes and now staring at his plate.

"Sherlock-"

"You are not my punching bag."

John frowned momentarily then his eyes widened with remembrance, "Hey, listen I didn-"

"I do not consider you as my punching bag," Sherlock went on, "nor do I take you for granted. I do not function like a normal person. I- I try, for you, but I suspect that I am incapable of succeeding in this matter. I do all those things which you have rightfully accused me of doing because I know that you will not judge me and I can get away with them. I feel free when I am with you and I am aware how lame it must sound to you. But I never had anyone like you; I have no prior experience how to behave civilly or how to be in a relationship. People treated me with contempt and I returned the gesture doubly. And those experiences made me more and more inhuman. I don't understand sentiments... All I know is, there is you and you will keep me right. I won't have to be alone anymore. I never stop to consider that that may not be what you want in a relationship. But believe me, John, you are and always will be the centre of my being. Therefore, I would like to apologize for the things you have to suffer on my account. I want you to know that...that I love you, most ardently. I fail to express it through my inexcusable actions but I...I will do whatever you decide, just...just don't leave me, John."

Both sat there in a complete silence for a long moment. Instead of bursting out with emotions John felt a serene calm washed him over. He closed his eyes.

It was the sound of a chair scraping the wood that broke John's trance. Sherlock had stood up and was about to leave the room, clearly taking John's silence as rejection. John caught Sherlock's wrist when he was passing him.

"If I wanted normal I wouldn't have replied to your snarky texts. If I wanted normal I wouldn't have fallen for you. But I did and despite my complaining, be sure that you will not getting rid of me anytime soon. In fact, if my plan works, you are stuck with me for the rest of our lives." John looked up to see Sherlock looking at the floor with an inscrutable expression, "Think you can deal with that?"

Sherlock nodded his consent vehemently, bouncing his moppy hair. John smiled and brought that knobbly, pale wrist to his lips.

"Chinese or Angelo's?"

"Angelo's."

* * *

~0~0~0~


	14. Chapter 14 Decisions and Revisions

**Hi my lovelies,**

 **The penultimate chapter. A tiny one compared to the others. Just some scenes which I wanted to include before the ending. Hope you'll like it.**

 **This is beta'd by my bestie, Magda The Magpie. Despite having a tiring day at work, not only did she give it a read over, she also beta'd it voluntarily! Within half an hour! She is my Hermione (sans the nagging).**

 **The remaining mistakes are mine.**

 **Enjoy the read!**

 **Reviews are ice creams!**

 **The next chapter will be the final one.**

 **Love, kisses, hugs and Myc plushies to- All those who followed/favourited this story/me. And, to Sandylee, Raven, Nauss and The Sloth Alchemist! You guys are the best! Love you all.**

* * *

 ** _Title: Decisions and Revisions_**

 ** _Summary: The past catches up with the present..._**

* * *

 ** _"_** ** _Do I dare_**

 ** _Disturb the universe?_**

 ** _In a minute there is time_**

 ** _For decisions and revisions_**

 ** _Which in a minute will reverse."_**

\- from ' ** _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_** ' by **T. S. Eliot**

* * *

The trip to visit Sherlock's mother, Violet Holmes' grave, was anti-climactic. John expected a certain ammount of drama, of course; Holmeses were famous for their theatrics, after all. And honestly, he was afraid that Sherlock would botch the plan midway and drag John home. Surprisingly, none of those happened. It was somewhat too normal, considering Sherlock's track record.

It was almost noon when they arrived at the cemetery in Sussex. Sherlock did his best to delay the trip, John was equally as stubborn. But when Sherlock paused before entering the graveyard, John just stood beside him holding his hand, letting Sherlock take the final step. This was for Sherlock; if he didn't want to face the situation, John would never push. But finally, Sherlock steeled himself and stepped into the cemetery.

After that, everything was pretty awkward and...well, just awkward. Sherlock scratched his head, cleared his throat, tried to look at the headstone as little as he could manage and introduced John to his Mum.

"Mummy, this is John, as you already know," he turned to John, "John, this is my mother, Violet Holmes." After John said his greetings and set the bouquet of lilies on the grave, Sherlock said, "Okay, as both of you have sated your curiosity now, we will be on our way. Goodbye, Mummy, come on, John," and promptly began to tug John's jumper sleeve and headed for the exit. John started to protest but checked himself just in time. It wasn't about what he thought Sherlock should or should not do. It was about what Sherlock decided he should do. John pulled the sleeve out of Sherlock's grip and wrapped his fingers around the cold hand instead.

"You did good, love."

"It wasn't a test."

"Mmhm."

"...Idiot."

"I love you too."

John laughed and squeezed his hand when Sherlock scowled at him. Every day with this man was an experience. Bizarre, most of the times, but exciting nonetheless.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Just when John thought his daily quota of excitement had been filled he met Robbie.

"Doc?"

John, nodding absentmindedly at something Sherlock was nattering about, didn't catch it.

"Hey, Doc? Is that you, Watson?"

That voice, that face was so unexpected in the middle of London, familiar yet so foreign that John's step faltered.

"Ro- Robbie?"

"Doc! Holy shit, it's really you! Oh God, Doc!"

John was smothered in a bear hug.

"Robbie... I can't- you- wh-when did you come back?" then John felt his heartbeat stuttered as a terrible though occurred to him. "Are you alright? You're not- are you-"

"No no no," the young soldier interjected before John could panic anymore, "I'm alright. Perfect. I'm on a leave, don't worry." He grinned then and said, "You need to chill out more, Doc. You used to worry so much. Anyway, how are _you_? You look so damn good! What have-"

A loud throat clearing stopped Robbie.

"Oh, so sorry, I didn't realize you.."

"Yeah, um" John blushed a little, "this is, uh-"

"Hey, I know him! Isn't that- isn't that your _London bloke_ , Doc? Bloody hell! You did have your happy ending, after all."

"Yeah...well..er..Sherlock," he cleared his throat and turned to his boyfriend, "this is Robbie, he served with me in Afghanistan. Robbie, this is Sherlock."

"Wow," Robbie smiled even wider and extended his hand, "it's nice to meet you finally. Our Doc here used to be arse over tit about you," and winked at John. That cheeky bastard.

Sherlock shook the offered hand and gave a tight smile, "Impressive. So, you are the one whom John got shot for?"

Robbie's jovial face lost all its colour instantly, and before John could yell at the insensitive git, Sherlock continued, "Also, I presume, you are the one who saved him from bleeding out? In that case, you have my sincerest gratitude for keeping my John safe. Thank you."

John was stunned. _Did he just-_ Suddenly two memories came to the forefront of his mind: Sherlock saying him that he wished him dead, and Sherlock telling him that he was giving him a reason to come back alive. John sucked in a breath; he felt dizzy. How far had they come since then. How his life had changed since the day Sherlock decided to text him back. He stared at this brilliant man and saw the boy he had seen so many months ago in a photograph he received with a letter in that damned desert. His eyes stung and he blinked.

And realized that Robbie was saying something.

"...you, but you don't have to thank me, really. It was my duty. We are ordered not to leave anybody behind, you know. Er, not that I would have left Doc anyway, I owe him my life. So, um, it really isn't necessary."

Sherlock gave another nod and offered a small smile before stepping back a bit, giving John his cue to butt in. John got the message.

"So, uh, how's everything? How's everyone?"

"Everything's okay," Robbie turned to John, relieved to be on a familiar topic again, "the new doc is a moron, throwing hissy fits at every prank. Dave is still a pain in the arse. I'm still the coolest one," he winked, "oh, Doc, Murr is in London, too."

John's face lit up with genuine delight; Murr was his best mate in the Army, after all. "Really? That's great! How's is he doing? He's on the leave too, isn't he?"

Robbie laughed heartily, "Relax, Doc. He's fit as a fiddle but was asking after you the other day. We didn't have your address or number."

John felt embarrassed. After returning home, he practically shut everyone out, except for Sherlock and the merry band that tailed after him. He never made any kind of effort to reconcile with anyone from his previous life, not even with Harry. It was like a before-after thing. Guilt spread through him.

"Yeah, I- I never contacted any of you. It's just... I'm sorry I should have.."

"Hey, it's okay, perfectly alright. We didn't mind. You had a lot to take in. We were just a bit worried a bit, but we understood, even Murr. But, if you want to call him I've got his number." Robbie looked at him questioningly.

"Yeah, sure. That'd be brilliant. I may not be available for the next few days," John got his phone out of his pocket and said, "let's meet up tonight."

"Oh damn, I can't make it tonight. Gotta help Mum with some chores."

"You sure?" John asked, somewhat disappointed, and then he felt it- Sherlock's hand around his elbow. Before he could turn to see what was the matter Robbie spoke, "Yeah, Doc, I'm sure. I'm sorry, I really wanted to have an evening out with you guys but I promised Mum already. Hey, give me a call when you are free, if I'm still around we can meet up."

"Yeah, okay, that sounds good. I'll call you once I'm free."

After that, they talked some more about their other mates and exchanged phone numbers. Sherlock didn't say anything else and gave a tight smile when Robbie finally bid them goodbye and left.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John enquired immediately.

But the detective didn't answer, just kept walking. That was always a bad sign.

"Sherlock?" John tried again.

"You won't be available this evening."

"I won't? Why?" because they wouldn't be leaving before the day after tomorrow.

"We have a case."

"But we agreed not to take any before leaving."

Sherlock scoffed at a snot-nosed, lolly-licking kid who in turn stuck his small, green tongue out at Sherlock.

"We have packing to do."

 _Oh. So, that's the case..._ John bit his lip in amusement, "I won't be going alone, love. You'll go with me too."

"Of course not!" Sherlock threw him an incredulous glare.

"But I want you to meet my friends."

"By _friends_ you mean _Murr_."

"Yes, I mean Murr."

"Absolutely not. I will not be subjected to an evening of foolhardy blabbering between two ex-lovers."

John closed his eyes briefly and reminded himself that his boyfriend tended to hurt people when he was emotionally confused and scared.

"They have served beside me, with me. They were there for me when no one else was. They are the reason I'm still here, safe and alive. And Murr is one of my oldest friends. I'm going to see if he can meet tonight. It'd be great if you could join us. You are free to reject, of course, but I request you not to doubt my commitment to you, to us."

They didn't speak for the rest of the way.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Turned out Murr was available that evening and was quite eager to meet. They made plans to meet in a pub at seven.

"You sure you don't want to come?"

Sherlock put his headphone on and sneezed as a reply. He had caught a cold all of a sudden. Very suspicious. John sighed and left. He couldn't fathom why Sherlock was so insecure about him, and honestly, sometimes it was suffocating.

Seeing Murray after so long brought many memories back. Memories about a life where Sherlock didn't exist. He realized that his life had been divided into two parts now: Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. And meeting someone from his Before Sherlock life was quite different, in a good way. Forty minutes into the evening and they were laughing their heads off at some old jokes. They may not hit it as lovers but they were, indeed, damn good friends.

Suddenly Murr asked, "Hey, John, does your boyfriend wear fancy long coats and look like a teen vampire?"

John put his pint down immediately and looked around, "Where is he?"

Murr pointed his pint at the window behind John. John turned and yes, there he was, with his Belstaff, blue scarf, wild hair, patented scowl and a red nose. He looked ridiculously cute and young. John excused himself immediately and went outside.

"Hey, you came!"

"No. I was just following a suspect."

John's lips quirked up, "Yeah? And does this suspect have sandy blond hair, blue eyes and a dashing personality?"

Sherlock's glare fell flat because of the sneeze that followed it, "Shut up."

John laughed aloud. His mad boyfriend was too adorable at times. He dragged the nutter inside. The meeting, understandably, wasn't as smooth as it was with Robbie since neither of them really liked the other, but John knew that they were trying, at least. After sizing each other up for a couple of minutes, they settled for civilly ignoring one another as much as the politeness permitted. John took it as a good sign.

The chatting went on with occasional interjections from Sherlock who was sitting beside John and opposite Murray. The soldier was retelling a particularly embarrassing anecdote that involved a drunken John and, erm, a goat. Murr was wiping happy tears from his eyes and saying, "Then our John here, oh, he was so red, and panting- and-"

"My John" a gritted out voice halted Murr's sentence.

John spilled his drink and started to cough. Genuinely.

Murray blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what he heard but failed, "Um...sorry?"

"It's _my_ John." Sherlock repeated with clenched teeth. John kept coughing.

Poor Murray, having no idea what the hell was going on, parroted, "My John?"

"Not your John, _My_ John, mine." Sherlock almost bellowed.

John, finally done with the ill-timed coughing fit, hissed out a "Sherlock!" before turning apologetic eyes to a perplexed looking Murray, "I'm sorry, it's just- he is- he, er, uh-"

Murray nodded thoughtfully, although what he could decipher out of that gibberish, only he knew, and said with equal eloquence, "Oh, okay, umm, yeah, that's...excuse me for a sec, eh?"And headed for the loo.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" John bit out as soon as Murray left, and it took everything in him to keep his voice at a decent level.

Sherlock lifted his chin defiantly and said, "He brought it upon himself. I cannot be held accountable for taking action."

John was totally at a loss and thoroughly frustrated, "Taking action for what exactly? Whenever I spend time with someone else other than you, you react like this. What's going on, Sherlock? It's- I don't understand why are you so insecure?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you don't find it objectionable when he calls you 'his'?"

"He-" John gaped at his boyfriend because _seriously?_ "He didn't say anything like that. It was a just generalized term, for fuck's sake!"

"Then, I presume, you are also at ease with his still lingering feelings about your previous liaison?"

"What? What feelings?"

"Oh, for God's sake, John, can't you honestly see? He was assessing if you still fancy him, whether he could rekindle the relationship once again, and he was planning to ask you out on a date."

"For how long exactly were you standing outside?"

Before he could receive an answer, Murray came back from the loo. Their chatting never really resumed like before because of the obvious awkwardness that hung thick between them. And also, John kept a close eye on Murr because, no matter how irrationally jealous Sherlock was, he had yet to see one of his deductions go wrong. To his dismay, he could actually detect the surreptitious glances Murr was throwing at him which could not fall under the 'just friends' spectrum. Before long, they called it a night; Murray made John promise to keep in touch and surprisingly, Sherlock behaved pretty decently, going as far as shaking Murr's hand.

They decided to walk back home. John didn't quite know what to say. It was easy to yell at Sherlock, to disapprove, but that wouldn't solve anything. If a rational mind like Sherlock's was doing something apparently irrational time and again, then, there must be a reason.

"Sherlock?" his voice was soft, understanding, "I want to understand what is bothering you so much. Don't you trust me anymore?"

The other man was silent for so long that John didn't think he would get an answer. Then Sherlock spoke.

"I do not trust myself. I do not trust myself not to do something that will drive you away at some point. Your affection for me, though stemmed out of your curiosity about me at first, is actually based onto your easy to please persona and your inherent trait of a caregiver. It is too late for me to back out now, and I am in constant fear of losing something which I have come to know as my sole purpose in life."

"That's not true, that's-" But Sherlock didn't even heard him.

"If it is not my brother's meddling it is someone else, someone better."

"But that's absurd, that's-"

"Irrational?" Sherlock supplied and John nodded dumbly. "Is it really so? Love also comes with an expiry date, John, especially for people like you who have the misfortune of getting attached to someone undeserving like me.

John slowed down and looked at the slender back of this vulnerable, fragile man. A sudden fear gripped him. "Are you going to- try to- leave me?" he asked slowly.

He could hear Sherlock's mirthless chuckle, "As if that was even a possibility...ever."

"You are not going to lose me either, Sherlock." John said earnestly; he believed it with all his heart and wanted to transfer that trust to Sherlock somehow.

Sherlock turned back to John without stopping his pace and gave a sad little smile, "Not today, obviously."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Jim leaned back in his plush chair in the dark room, face illuminated by the light of a live camera feed, deadly eyes fixed on the taller man. Then his eyes shifted to the smaller man and softened immediately.

He touched the screen when the camera zoomed in on the man's face, "The wait is over John, finally." And picked up his phone.

* * *

~0~0~0~


	15. Chapter 15 The Two Of UsAlways

**Hi, my darlings,**

 **This is it. This is the end. I've been writing this series for a year now and I can't believe it ends tonight. I feel relieved, I feel sad...I don't know what I'm feeling right now. It's so tough to let this version of my Sherlock and John go. They are my first borns! This series is my first born. I depicted the boys here just the way I see them. And I hope I did justice to their characters.**

 **For you, my lovely readers, I can't thank you enough for the huge amount of support, love, positivity you have showed to the boys, to this series and to me. This was my first venture into this fanfiction world and the experience is overwhelming. I have met many wonderful people, made friends, met my Kiddo, and found my bestie. You guys have made me feel special, feel appreciated with your kind words, your patience. You laughed with the boys, cried with the boys and suddenly I wasn't so lonely anymore. A 'thank you' will never do justice to what I feel about you all, but for the lack of any other gesture, I thank you from the core of my heart for giving this series and me a chance.**

 **I will miss those who used to leave reviews on almost every chapter, thus making my day. Maybe I will meet you guys again in one of my other fics. (I intend to write loads of them :D)**

 **Thank you for the reviews, follows, favourites. Hi to all of you who followed this story but whom I never met. Be happy, stay safe. Take care.**

 **Farewell...for now.**

 **This is Beta'd by MagdaTheMagpie, my bestie. Love you, girl, for always being there for me.**

 **The remaining mistakes are mine.**

 **This chapter may disappoint you but know that the adventure never ends.**

 **enjoy the read!**

* * *

 **"** **This is the end**

 **Hold your breath and count to ten**

 **Feel the earth move and then**

 **Hear my heart burst again**

 **For this is the end.**

 **Let the sky fall**

 **When it crumbles**

 **We will stand tall**

 **Face it all together..."**

 **-"Skyfall" by Adele**

* * *

"No, absolutely not."

"But Jawn!"

"Don't John me. We won't be taking that damned microscope with us to France and that's final. If you need one, which I'm sure you will considering I'm such a bore for you, your brother can provide you with one. But do not expect me to drag that monster all the way there."

"Take it instead of that trolley suitcase. Problem solved."

"We need clothes! I need clothes. Not everyone can lounge around all day wrapped in a sheet."

"I most certainly do not lounge."

"Uh, you are doing exactly that right now."

"I am merely contemplating the disadvantages of having an idiot for a boyfriend."

"Oh? Want to exchange? Perhaps you'll find someone clever in France, and to secure a man like that you'll need your fancy suits to show off and that means the trolley must go with- owwww! Sherlock! Stop falling like a rock on my lap every time you see me sitting down. You are not a cat and way too heavy."

"Mmmmm."

"You nutter, stop licking me, I haven't showered yet."

"Mmmmmm."

"What is it, genius? Need a cuddle?"

"Mmhmmm."

"Okay...God, your are- oh that tickles, sto- heyyy. Okay okay, we can cuddle for a bit- stop biting me- we ca-mmph...mmmmm..."

"You were saying?"

"You cheeky monkey! We are leaving in three hours."

"But we have packed everything already."

" _I_ have packed everything, yes, but you still need to wear actual clothes."

"Why? What's wrong with this is robe?"

"I won't even bother to answer that. You are wearing a proper outfit for the journey and that's an order."

"Kinky but dull...ow! What is it with you and my nose? Always grabbing my nose, you molesting barbarian."

"I love your nose. It is the only thing in your body that doesn't scowl at me. Even your cock scowls at times! Anyway, it's small and cute and very un-Sherlock-y."

"Charming as always, aren't we, _Doctor_? Now, shut up and provide me with some data."

"..."

"More."

"..."

"More."

"..."

"More."

"No more. We're gonna be late. Mycroft will throw a fit."

"That's exactly the plan. And there's always time for one more, John."

"... Brat."

"Yes, your brat."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Mycroft Holmes phone chirped, interrupting the quietness of his spacious office.

A message from a blocked number.

He arched an eyebrow and picked it up.

 ** _What would be better, Mikey darling? Watching little brother dance through a camera feed, which will absolutely ruin his beautiful features? Or to have the front seat of a live performance? – M_**

Mycroft reread the text once again before setting the phone down on his table. He checked the time and called Anthea through the intercom; then, took out the phone that had only one number in its contact list. He had a phone call to make.

He would be lying if he said he didn't expect something like this to happen. Only it happened quicker than he anticipated. No need to worry, though. He was always prepared when it came to his brother.

Mycroft sat there, with steepled fingers. His calm never wavered. Not even once.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock didn't want to go, not in the least. But seeing John so excited about the exile (urgh!) he didn't want to disappoint him. Therefore, he smiled when he was required to, nodded in all the right intervals, even carried one of their bags from their bedroom to the living room! The things he did for John... Then John kissed him murmuring promises and the exile didn't look so bad anymore. Idiot.

Now, they were sitting in a cab, on the way to the airport with John acting like a kid with sugar high.

"A holiday, at last! God knows we needed one. Remember the things we planned in our letters if we ever visited France?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John, for the umpteenth time it is an _exile_ , not a holiday. And you have been doing an excellent job at reminding me about the plans every forty five minutes for two days now."

"That's because you keep deleting them, you git," John said without any bite.

"Do you want me to recite them from my memory?" Although his tone suggested that he had no intention of doing so even if John wished.

John didn't look like he had heard him at all. Instead, he whispered an "oh" and pulled out his phone from his pocket. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eyes with a bored expression that turned into a questioning one as his boyfriend snuggled into him, one hand holding the phone up at an odd angle.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a selfie for the blog." John twisted and turned trying to find a better angle.

"But you don't have a blog!"

"I will, soon, about us. Now, will you please sit still for a moment?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned at the camera, and after the click he saw his grumpy face beside John's smiling one, their cheeks touching. John was unreasonably happy seeing the picture. Sherlock was happy seeing John.

After a few minutes, the cab reached the airport and they got out.

They were approaching the tarmac where their private flight was waiting, when his phone vibrated, signalling a call.

' _Fatty_ '

Sherlock frowned at the screen. Why was his brother calling him when he knew Sherlock preferred to text?

"What?" he barked.

"Congratulations, brother dear, as your wish prevailed at last."

"If you want to be dramatic I suggest you to join the theatre, Mycroft. Stop wasting my time."

"The Naval treaty is gone from MI6 archive."

"You have my deep condolences."

"Also, a bomb went off at Leinster Gardens, killing _none_ , surprisingly. I have reasons to believe these two accidents are connected."

"And the snipers."

"...Yes."

"Full access to MI6 _and_ MI5 archives. Also, I won't be answerable to anyone."

"Access only to MI6 files related to the case and you will report to me."

"The whole MI6 and NSY archive."

"Four MI5 stand-by guards."

"Two."

"Two and a car."

"Baker Street."

"All right, I will be there within half an hour."

Sherlock ended the call. John was standing there beside him, waiting patiently. Sherlock whirled towards him, grabbed his shoulder and shook him, "A perfectly executed grand level theft and a bombing in the middle of the day. Christmas has come early, John! Oh, this is brilliant."

John looked befuddled, "What? But...the trip?"

"Trip? Oh, France can wait. England needs us now, John. Queen and country and all that drama. We have a criminal to catch."

It was a testament of how John Watson had changed him as, in the midst of his case induced excitement, Sherlock noticed how the news of the cancelled trip deflated John. A sense of guilt gripped him, but...

"John," he cupped his lover's face with both hands and kissed him softly, "I promise you to go wherever you wish to take me once all this is over. But for now, I need you with me, please."

With that, he stepped back, took John's hand in his and dragged him towards the exit.

The airport was abuzz as the news of the explosion had hit the media now. Sherlock noted the approx time of the explosion was just after the moment they reached the airport. _Interesting_.

One of Mycroft's kidnap cars was waiting for them outside and Sherlock very begrudgingly appreciated the gesture as he knew getting a cab and reaching home in the middle of this chaos would have taken them hours. He opened the door for John and ushered him, "The mystery awaits, John, come along. Keep up or I'll be lost without my blogger."

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

Sherlock almost ran over Mrs. Hudson when they reached 221B, roughly fifteen minutes later. He was a bundle of nervous energy, with twitching fingers and inaudible muttering, all the while tapping on his phone. He bounded up the stairs the moment Mrs. Hudson opened the door, leaving John to deal with their landlady's numerous questions. John looked up the stairs then at Mrs. Hudson and sighed.

"Oh, you boys came back! You left and then there was this- this explosion and I was so worried! They blocked some roads and...oh, I can't deal with this tension, I have a hip! But why did you come back?"

"A case came up."

"Oh, my poor boy," she patted John's cheek with sympathetic affection, "I'm sure you'll have another chance soon, dear."

"Yeah, sure," John smiled despite his dampened mood and prepared to haul the luggage up the stairs.

"Oh, John?" Mrs. Hudson called out from her door, "you've had a delivery earlier, just after you left. I have put it on your tea table."

"Oh, okay, thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'm gonna.." he gestured upwards, already distracted about the delivery. _Who on earth would send him anything? Harry? Murr? Unlikely._

Moments later John entered their flat, panting softly from all the exhaustion, and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room with an enormous bouquet of blood red roses. There was a single flower, which John couldn't identify, sitting in the middle of the bouquet. His jaw dropped at the sight.

"Is- is that the delivery?" he asked somewhat dazedly because _what the hell? Flowers?_

When he didn't get an answer he lifted his eyes to Sherlock and was met with a piercing gaze.

"Who is Richard Brooke, John?"

John frowned, "Who?" _Richard Brooke? Why does that name sounds so familiar? Richard...Rich..._

It took him a few seconds to gather up his wits and delve into his memories to find that name. But when the sense of recognition dawned on him, his eyes widened comically.

"Richard Brooke...yes, of course," he murmured to himself, but Sherlock caught it and asked tersely, " _Of course_?"

John shook his head. He never thought he would come across that name again in his life. To be honest, he never even gave a thought about it, about _him_.

"Remember the kid that used to write to me while I was in Afghanistan? That rehab kid I told you about? That's Richard Brooke, but what has that got to do with-?" he waved his hand at the bouquet.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration for a moment then looked at John incredulously, "You're still exchanging letters with him?"

"What?" John frowned then blinked, "No, of course not! I haven't heard from him since I left, and wouldn't I have told you if I did?" John bristled but he had more pressing matters at hand, "Is that- did those come from him?"

"Yes," came a gritted out reply, "along with a _note_."

"Note? What does it say? And how the hell does he know where I live?" John asked with a sense of growing trepidation. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

"You tell me," and Sherlock handed him a small folded card.

The paper was expensive and hallmarked. John opened it.

 **" "We know what we are, but not what we maybe..."**

 **I missed you, did you miss me?**

 **It's been so long, John...**

 **-Richard Brooke**

John stood shell shocked.

"Do you know what these flowers signify, John?" Sherlock's voice jolted him, thus pulling him out of his haze.

"I- uh, I know about the red rose. Passion, desire, love and, well, that's all. But I don't know about that one," he tilted his chin to indicate that single unknown flower, "I don't even know its name."

"Fraxinella. The flower of Fire."

Their gaze met and stayed for a long moment. Then, Sherlock turned, threw the bouquet into the unlit fireplace and went to stand by the window. John was too bewildered to protest. And he probably wouldn't have told Sherlock anything at this moment, even if he had the right frame of mind.

He skimmed through the card once again, trying to come up with something, anything, that might explain this bizarre incident.

"Believe me, Sherlock, I don't know how-"

"I believe you, John," Sherlock interjected without turning, "I trust you. No matter however else I act, know that I always believe you."

John wanted to hug him, hold him and never let go. For understanding. For believing. Because he didn't think he could have handled another jealous tantrum now. The urge to touch Sherlock was so fierce that he actually took several steps and stood by his lover. But he didn't touch him, yet.

"Then...how, why?"

"Why, you ask, John?" Those steepled fingers stroked that pale chin, eyes narrowed, unfocused, "Because, someone is obsessed enough to trace, track and finally find out a non-descriptive Army doctor whose history after being discharged is now a classified file at MI6. Someone with immense knowledge and intelligence..." Sherlock turned his head to his right to meet John's eyes, "Someone like me."

Silence stretched out as they held their gaze. Both faces depicting an array of emotions. Then John inhaled loudly, breaking the spell.

"But Richard never sounded like you. What I've had gathered from his letters, he was just like any other seventeen year old. Yes, he was very bright, that much I can say, but it was nowhere near your intelligence, Sherlock. And nobody can be that clever but you. Nobody can be like you. And-" John hesitated for a moment, "and there was no indication that he was _obsessed_ or even emotionally involved with me."

Sherlock hummed non-committally, mind still racing on.

"For how long did he write to you?"

"A few months, uh, maybe three or four before the Christmas I met you."

"Hmm, quite long, then."

"Yes, you can say that."

"How frequent?"

"It was a letter a month for a couple of months, then the flow increased." John frowned, trying to remember, "I can't be sure but maybe it was two letters a month. Sometimes more. My mates made my life hell for receiving so many letters." John chuckled at the memory despite himself.

Sherlock gave him a sideway glance, "You said he was in a rehab. Addict? And how did the correspondence started?"

"I never asked him about the cause of his stay and he never volunteered to tell me. It was some kind of communication programme where the patients were asked to write to the deployed soldiers. Actually, I don't know much about him, I was never curious, you know. But he seemed pretty interested in my life."

"How interested?" Sherlock turned fully towards him, "What kind of things did he want to know?" His voice became distant, as if talking to himself, "He was gathering information, clearly. Assessing and using them." Then his eyes zeroed in on John once again, "What did you two talk about?"

John was very, very puzzled at this point. He knew Sherlock was connecting dots to create a picture. But he couldn't even see the dots, let alone the picture, and that made him confused and frustrated. "I- we, uh, we talked about our current lives, daily drudgery, boring stuff. He often asked me about my family, my home, how I grew up, my likes, dislikes. Or even my early Army days. We even talked about you a couple of times."

"Me? You talked about me with a stranger?"

"Er...you see, I was pretty depressed and very much affected after we met; it was a long wait before your first letter arrived. I wanted- _needed_ \- someone to talk about things. Nothing explicitly, mind, but the things I was feeling. Talking about those things to my mates was out of question for obvious reasons, and at that time, a faceless stranger seemed like the best option available. It was easy to open my heart when I didn't know the person."

The crease between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened, heralding a vicious scowl. "You talked about _us_ with him? You opened your _heart_ to him?" He spat.

"No! No no no, it wasn't like that. I just told him how brilliant you were and how you fascinated me. And that...that I missed you. Please realize that at that point I didn't even know if I would hear from you again or not."

"But you gave him enough information to lead things where they are now."

John looked sheepish. He didn't do anything wrong but well, he shouldn't have babbled that much to a stranger, as Sherlock pointed out. Kid or not.

"Do you still have the letters?"

"No, I only have yours. I didn't find them after I recovered."

"Hm."

They stood there awkwardly, avoiding each other's eyes. At last, Sherlock broke the silence.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Were you-were you close to him, too? Not emotionally of course, that much I can deduce... but was he, too, your best friend?"

John looked at Sherlock's face, turned away from him. God, he was so beautiful.

"I had one best friend. I still do. And that's you, Sherlock Holmes. Never doubt that. Yes, I liked talking to this kid. He was very vibrant, energetic. But I was never attached, emotionally or otherwise. I never allowed myself to get attached to anyone outside the Army."

"But you did with me."

"Since when do you follow the rules? I was bound to break them for you. I was in love, after all."

Sherlock, who was now gazing at him intently, leaned forward a bit more, "Even then?"

"Always." And John closed the remaining gap to kiss this beautiful man. His best friend, his lover. His Sherlock. His home.

The kiss was soft, languid, full of promises and nostalgia.

Ending the kiss, they stood there with John wrapping his arms around Sherlock form behind, chin resting against that bony shoulder. Sherlock's large hands covering his.

"I told you, John, didn't I, that there will be always someone, ready to take you away from me?"

"Would you let them? Without a fight?"

"Of course not!" The scorn was evident in his voice, "But what if they outsmart me? What if I fail you, John?"

"Nobody can outsmart you, Sherlock. You are the cleverest person I have ever seen."

"Do not underestimate someone who has found you out, motivated by some mere letters. And never think lightly of an obsessed person."

"I won't, but he must have had some really resourceful people at his disposal. I mean, he's just a teenager, after all."

Sherlock sniffed, "I solved my first murder case at eight."

John laughed, the sound muffled by Sherlock's neck where he pressed his lips, "Once again, he is not _you_."

They were silent once again.

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounded quiet, grim, "Can you see the web forming around us?"

John, already alarmed by that voice, asked with equal seriousness, "Web?"

"Yes, a web. A rapidly growing web. The snipers, the theft at MI6, the bombing today and the return of Richard Brooke- These all are the connecting points in the web."

"What? But- that sounds quite farfetched, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. Don't you see, John, it was you, always you."

"Me?" John tried to untangle his limbs from his boyfriend to look at his face properly; he was thoroughly baffled. But Sherlock didn't let him. He only tightened his grip more. John stopped trying and rewrapped his arms once again. "What about me?"

"At the Milverton's, those snipers' were for you; the moment Milverton ordered his men to kill you the shooting started. Hacking the CCTVs was to track you. The bombing this morning happened just when you were about to leave the country. The bouquet was delivered minutes after we left. The sender knew that we would be coming back shortly. It was all planned out, John. All along. My arrogance blinded me earlier, prevented me from seeing it." Sherlock gritted out, "This Richard Brooke is a central point in this web."

"Or he can be another prey. Just stuck inside the net somehow," suggested John.

The taller man turned his head to the side a bit and said over his shoulder, "Or maybe he is the spider."

John was still, standing behind him. The wheels were turning in his head. Still trying to negate the implications, to make sense out of this strange situation. Why would anyone go to such great length for him? The only person he could think of doing something like that for him was in his arms right now. Then who? And...

"But what about the theft? What was that for? I'm sure as hell it wasn't connected in any way with me."

"That was one of the dots I can't seem to connect with the rest of them. I'm missing something. Over looking something. I need more data. More clarity. I need to see, John, I need to solve this. I can't lose you. I can't. You- this, this crippling need for you, this co-dependency... I hate it, I hate it so much. Yet, I crave it more than anything. More than life itself. I can see why he wants to take you away. But I won't let him, John. I can't, I can't. I love you and I won't let him and there will be- there will-"

"Shhh, shh, shh," John rested one of his hands against Sherlock's chest and pushed him backwards, pressing their bodies more tightly. He couldn't let Sherlock be miserable now, not ever. If Sherlock's assumption was correct then they needed to keep their calm now more than anything. He needed to anchor Sherlock. "I love you, I love you more than you can ever imagine. And I have no doubt that you won't let him take me away from you. _I_ won't let him. Sherlock, listen to me," he kissed Sherlock's ear," there is no need to jump into any conclusion right now. I am not saying that you are wrong but there are other variables that should be taken into consideration. And to do that we need to be at our best condition, all right? We can't afford to lose our focus now. I am here with you, I'll always be here with you. I won't go anywhere. We love each other, Sherlock. I won't survive a day without you, love."

"I'm scared, John." Sherlock whispered.

If that simple yet brutally honest statement had startled John, he didn't let it show. Instead, he kissed Sherlock's ear once again and asked casually, "For what exactly?"

"That I will lose you. That I won't be able to save you."

John leaned back and craned his head to make eye contact; Sherlock twisted a bit and did the same.

"I don't need saving, Sherlock. What I need is for you to trust me when I say you will never lose me."

"You can't promise that."

"I can."

"No."

"Do you believe in forever, love?" John asked, his tone serious.

"No, I do not."

"Then why are you scared?"

"Because, I want to! For us." Sherlock sounded so frustrated. It broke John's heart, but this wasn't a time to be emotional. He touched his lover's chin with his lips.

"Can you promise me forever, Sherlock?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, then, logical as ever that he was, replied honestly, "No, I can't, unfortunately."

A light brush of lips, "Then, can you promise to try hard to achieve that forever?"

Sherlock's eyes instantly hardened with determination and he said, "Yes, I can, and I promise so."

"Good. Then I promise to do the same. I promise to try to be with you forever, irrespective of the circumstances. Even when you put eyes balls in our teacups. There will always be the two of us, Sherlock. Always." And he kissed the man who stole his heart all those many months ago and never returned it. Brat.

Sherlock looked at him with a raw, open face, "Forever?"

"Always." John sealed the deal with another kiss that lasted quite a few minutes.

They stood there, pressed against each other. Wrapped in each other. Madly in love with each other. They were not naive. They knew a storm was brewing; many hurdles were yet to come. But they also knew as long as they were together they could face anything, overcome anything. They were a matched set, after all.

"Shall we let the game, begin, John?"

"Oh, God, yes! I can't wait."

"Could be dangerous."

"Never expected anything less."

"The two of us."

"Against the rest of the world."

"And Mycroft."

"And Mycroft."

They moved from the window and took their seats in the living room as they saw a black car stop in front of 221B Baker Street.

It was time for a new adventure.

* * *

~0~0~0~

* * *

 **John and Sherlock taking a Selfie was not my idea. It was suggested by a reader on A03. If you liked the scene, the credit goes to the person.**

 **I am very sorry for the cliffy ending. But this series was about the journey of Sherlock and John trying to be together. Hence, it must stop here, for now.**


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